Yawë
by FallenFairytale
Summary: Galbatorix captures Mariel, a 17 yr-old girl from her home; Earth. Trained by his best magicians and even Murtagh, will Mariel finally see the evil in her King? And if she does, will she be able to let go of all that her broken heart aches to hold on to? UPDATE: started writing again! Much better plot in mind now so please stick through the early chapters!
1. P: A Tear in the Fabric

**A/N: (Yawë means "trust".) Okay so this is my first multi-chapter story that I've posted on FF, so please be nice. This entire story takes place after Brisingr (except the prologue, which is three years prior), and it's my version of the 4****th**** book. So I'm going to put in my own interpretations of the riddles CP has given us from the first three books. (i.e. who is Tenga, how does Angela know him? Where is the vault of souls, how to defeat Galbatorix, what the Menoa tree is going to demand, who the women where who Angela cast the dragon knuckles for, etc) But Eragon isn't the main character of this story, so the majority of chapters won't be in his POV.**

**IMPORTANT: Caellyn's true name is Mariel, which Galbatorix tells her in one or two chapters. (I'm telling you now so as to avoid any confusion) Also, she is 14 when she's taken from Earth, but 17 for the majority of the story.**

**DISCLAIMER: I in no uncertain terms own the Inheritance Cycle or the characters/plot therein (else I wouldn't have sold my precious book off to a movie company who butchered it) however, I do own the plot of this story and any characters I make up. (including Caellyn/Mariel)**

Yawë

Prologue: A Tear in the Fabric

"That song you softly sing is keeping you from breaking."

-Belle of the Boulevard, Dashboard Confessional

Three Years Prior to Brisingr:

Being alone wasn't such a bad thing. In fact, Caellyn quite relished that silence. It was preferable to the interminable presence of those in her home.

_Home. _

Caellyn snorted dryly at the word. She didn't belong and she never had. The people she lived with weren't her family and they didn't even have the common decency to pretend they were. She was an outcast; of that much she was certain.

Caellyn wasn't normal and she didn't fit in. Anywhere. That was mostly due to her appearance and overwhelming intellect. Naturally there were always the slight other things. The things that reminded her, quite viciously, that she didn't belong: her reflexes were too fast, she could hold her breath far more than the humanly accepted norm and then, of course, there was the staring. If Caellyn concentrated on something too fervently, then something would happen. Something bad. She never knew what to expect – it could blow up, get set on fire, or disappear entirely. But that wasn't all. Due to her great intelligence, solutions to vexing problems were solved almost instantaneously. Physical exertions didn't wear on her as they did others.

When Caellyn closed her eyes, she liked to pretend she was normal. Or at least, that people would _think _she was normal. But closing her eyes didn't cover the only abnormal characteristic she bore. Hiding those piercing eyes didn't cover up her stunning features – the features that were far too defined to grace that of a normal person. This wouldn't have been as much of a problem if she'd been in a normal school. But she was in an all-girls school and that only exacerbated her friends issue. They all resented her for her uncanny wit and only ostracized her further because of her alien beauty.

But Caellyn could have dealt with that. She could have dealt with all of this if she'd had a loving family. A family to tell her she was normal…if she'd had parents who were alive. If she hadn't been forced into a foster family that hated her even more than those at school. But she couldn't control that. She couldn't control any of it. She was powerless, and she _hated _feeling powerless. She couldn't fix any of it.

And this was the exact reasoning which had her wedged between two cramped, not to mention uncomfortable, walls. Isolated. Her one area of refuge. She'd found her secret hiding place a few years back and, much to her relief, her foster family had no clue of its existence. It was just a small cubby hole hidden in her closet, behind boxes that weren't hers. The small door blended in perfectly with the wood around it, making it an ideal hideout.

"Caellyn, you get down here this _instant_!" A high pitched screech resonated through the floorboards, echoing through Caellyn's ears. She groaned internally, cursing at the sound.

Before she could consider ignoring the voice and hoping it would go away, she heard the pounding of feet on stairs. She wouldn't risk hiding if it meant they'd come up _looking _for her. Discovering her one area of solitude was not an option.

Caellyn quickly rushed from her hiding spot, and in a quick fluid movement she'd placed the door back over it. She stepped from her closet and swiftly shut the closet door behind her, just as someone opened the door to her room. She bitterly nodded that no knocking was involved.

"Yes?" Caellyn sputtered out, still somewhat breathless from her dashed escape. She leaned against the closet door, hoping he wouldn't check it. She hadn't had the time to cover it with the boxes and could only hope it wouldn't be examined too carefully.

"Yes?" Came back the mimicking response. It was Fred, her deranged foster brother.

Fred crossed his arms as he supported his weight against the wall adjacent to the closet. When Caellyn refused to give him an answer, or even admit that she'd heard him, he prompted her again, his voice snippier than before. If that was possible.

"Yes what?"

Silence.

"Yes… brother," came her grudging reply.

He leaned down over her, a light smirk on his proud features.

"Much better, little sis." Fred reached his hand out towards her and, instinctively, Caellyn flinched away. She bit back the urge to grab his hand and slap him soundly across the face. Noticing her reluctance, he instead changed venues and ruffled her brownish-black hair in a rough, mocking and – quite far from loving – manner.

Her stunning violet eyes narrowed into slits as she glared up furiously at her would-be brother. Glowering purple clashing strongly against cruelly entertained green ones.

Once more Caellyn battled the urge to slap him. She often got this urge under his constant barrage of unnerving behavior. This boy before her was no more her brother than the _parents _waiting downstairs – most assuredly to lecture her for something he had done – were her family.

"What are you blaming me for _this_ time?" Caellyn whispered scathingly through clenched teeth. Sometimes she secretly wished she'd just play along with his twisted attraction to her and then he'd stop blaming her for his misbehavior. Yeah, she had a _great _foster family. Since Caellyn constantly rejected Fred's advances, he would always find a way to punish her. He'd go out of his way to set her up. Even committing crimes he normally wouldn't have done. But she wouldn't give into him. He was a disgusting pig who she greatly desired to beat the living daylights out of.

"You are disgusting," Caellyn hissed out furiously. Her clear vehemence had no noticeable effect on him though. He was used to it.

"Oh my little sis," he whispered, leaning in much too close for her comfort. She made to take an involuntary step back, but only hit the closet door, "how little faith you have in me."

"It's well warranted." She shot back bitingly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then,

"Now get away from me," she snapped.

"Why?" He moved in even closer. Caellyn could smell his over-bearing cologne and did her best to ignore him, staring at the wall furthest from him. "Does it bother you?"

He moved in even closer, pressing his forehead against the side of her head, as she turned hers away at just the right time.

"Yes." She said clearly, and there was no mistaking the venom in her voice. He made no move to put any distance between them.

There was a creak in the wood.

He turned about to face the small little girl who had emerged from the hall, silent upon the stairs, her big blue eyes took in the scene quickly. He swiftly moved away from Caellyn and she relaxed, her tense shoulders melting down. He wouldn't dare try anything with her when his _real_ sister was around.

"Amy!" Caellyn struggled even harder now to put up her façade as she went over to the little girl and embraced her. There was of course a reason she allowed herself to endure her disgusting foster family. Amy.

Although she was only five, possibly six years of age, Caellyn felt a strange connection with her, and was loathe to leave the littler girl without her big sister…even if they weren't blood.

"Mummy wants you!" Amy cried out into Caellyn's dark brown hair.

"Oh?" Caellyn played it dumb, for Amy's sake. Her mind was whirling as she tried to remember all the recent inappropriate things Fred had gotten himself into.

"She's not happy," Amy informed her, looking up into Caellyn's face with her solemn blue eyes.

"Oh." There was no masking the dread in that single word as it fell from her mouth.

_What the hell has Fred gotten me into this time?_

"We're waiting!" A voice shot imperiously up at her, stressing unnecessary syllables to form a quite unnatural phrase.

Caellyn felt her insides turn cold and, grudgingly, she descended the first flight of stairs. She could hear Fred snickering behind her and convulsed slightly. This would _not _go over well. Amy ran ahead of them both, rushing down to her parents.

Caellyn made a move to follow her, but someone grabbed her arm, pulling her back. Fred. She groaned.

"What? Going to give me some warning as to what it is you did? It might be more believable for you if I actually knew what I'm going to be accused of."

"I could take the blame for this one," he murmured, intently gazing at Caellyn.

"No," she answered bitingly. He didn't seem too surprised.

"You didn't even hear me out," He quirked his eyebrows cockily.

"Get down here. _Now._" This time the voice was distinctly masculine. Then Caellyn really knew she was in for it. Her _father _never personally punished her. She'd never been deemed worthy enough. Caellyn looked at the older boy in horror, gasping out,

"What did you do?"

"Interested now?" He shot back cockily.

She snorted, "In you?"

Several moments of silence dragged by as she fumed up at him. Then she finally answered.

"We both know the answer to that." With a turn on heel she stalked off, taking whatever minute solace she could in his speechless silence. He'd thought she'd give in this time. Then a horrible thought struck her, sinking her slightly smug mood: if he thought she would give in…then he did something big.

Caellyn entered the room where the voices where coming from, that of medium size. There was a fire crackling and a couch across from it. Upon the couch was sitting the Mother and the voices drifted to a standstill as she entered. The Father was leaning against the couch, facing the same direction of the mother. Both facing away from Caellyn.

She knew the routine quite well; she would have to walk in front of their vision – so as not to disturb them into moving themselves – where she would be shamelessly lectured and told how worthless she was. In front of Amy and Fred.

Caellyn took a calming breath and waited for the screaming to begin.

"Well?" The Mother prompted austerely, refusing to look into her foster child's frightening eyes, "What have you to say for yourself?"

"I don't –"

"_Wretch,_" The Father spat, his grey eyes glittering menacingly. Caellyn bit back a defense, knowing it would be far worse if she didn't keep it to herself. He stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger in her face.

"This is the last time." His voice, however quiet as it was, held just as much menace. Again, Mariel held her tongue and bit back the insults she would just _love_ to throw at them.

_For Amy. For Amy. For Amy. _She chanted it over and over.

The father slammed something down on the table, and viciously studied her face – looking for recognition. She glanced down quickly at the table and her stomach lurched, anger flooding to her face.

_Drugs?_

Fred had gone too far this time.

"Frederick was right," The Mother breathed, clearly shocked. She had mistaken the heat in Caellyn's face for embarrassment.

_For Amy. For Amy. For Amy._

"Do you have _anything _to say for yourself?" The whisper was filled with absolute hate. Loathing. Caellyn was at a complete loss for words.

_Drugs. _

There would be no coming back from this. She was done. The Parents would have preferred her to be arrested for public prostitution and even personally brought to their door in police handcuffs, than have her be involved in drugs.

"Drug – addicted – _filth_." His voice came out as cold and menacing as she imagined the Devil's would.

Caellyn could feel her throat tightening and getting dry. But there was no way she would give him the satisfaction of her tears.

He let her guess at his next words for a few moments, allowing his tone to sink in. Then, "you're out."

"Father," Fred began, for once sounding remorseful. Apparently he realized he had gone too far this time too. "Maybe you shouldn't –"

"What?" Caellyn rounded on him, feeling a righteous fury bubble up in her chest. It was almost bestial. "Disappointed you won't have anyone to blame anymore?" Her voice was a mere whisper, but she saw it cut through him, "Just go back to your bloody _perfect _life where you do drugs, get wasted and blame me for _everything_. When are you going to realize," Her voice dropped even lower, so she could easily disguise her pain, "your stupid plan isn't going to work? I'm never going to fall for you." Caellyn kept her voice low enough, so that only he could hear her.

"How dare you." It wasn't a question. She closed her eyes tightly and turned back around, to face the Father.

"How dare you," he repeated, "blame my son? After everything we've done for you. And you have the gall to blame your misconduct on Frederick."

Caellyn opened her eyes, releasing the full power of her murderous gaze. He flinched involuntarily. No one liked those eyes.

"You aren't human," He sneered at her, "And you're a pathetic excuse for one too. Tell me," He exhaled condescendingly, sneering all the time, "do you even feel?"

He raised his hand behind his head and then brought it forward, slapping her across the face with a resounding _smack_. His black leather glove did nothing to lessen the blow. It was mere seconds before the flame started stinging at Caellyn's cheek.

"You can't do anything right, and you never have. You are _pathetic_. A sad excuse for part of this family. A sad excuse for a _human_."

Caellyn felt her emotion boiling up inside of her, readying to explode. Her eyes were already stinging and her throat grew tighter. She knew exactly what would come next.

She'd never been this bothered by his tirades before – but this one hit home. This one knew all of her worries and suspicions; not only did she not belong in their family, but she didn't belong in their world. She was a genetic freak.

"Why," Caellyn felt her voice shoot out, steady, despite the emotions roiling beneath her, "did you even adopt me?" Despite her calm outward demeanor, her entire world was falling apart, "You obviously don't care for me. You don't need me. Never have. Never will." Her pained voice was barely above a whisper, "I'm just some worthless, random person. And I never asked for this. You – you lecture me on how I'm barely passable for a human? Well you're not even passable as a parent. You're blind to what you're _perfect _son does!" Her voice was reaching a higher decibel now, the fury was reaching its peak, "Just because he's related to you doesn't mean he's inherently perfect! You see only what you want to. But the rest? The truth? You're blind to it. Why can't you see that? _Why_ do you hate me?" Caellyn's voice cracked on the last word, and her vision started swirling before her.

_ No. Not here. Not now. I am _not _going to cry._

"Why? Because you're worthless. Because you're trash," he answered coldly. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

The excruciating pain from his words started tearing in Caellyn's chest, ripping at her sides as a sob wracked through her frame. A gnawing voice sounded within the confines of her mind, the one that only came at times like this; times of pain.

_If you run, you'll never have to hurt like this again_, the soothing voice promised her.

A moment of indecisiveness kept her grounded to the floor in the deathly quiet room. A second sob ripped its way free of her chest and tears started pouring, unbidden from her eyes.

Then the moment was over. Caellyn ran from the room, from the family that couldn't accept her. She tore down the stairs two at a time as she abandoned any hope of ever knowing why fate seemed to revel in causing her such emotional pain. She whipped open the only obstacle in her way – a door – and rushed outside to be greeted by the merciless, pouring rain. She stopped for an instant, wondering where it was she had intended to go.

_Away_, the voice sounded again, soothing, _far away from the pain._

She didn't look back. And once again, she sprinted as fast as her legs would carry her. The ground was flying beneath her feet as she, quite unknowingly, rushed out to meet her doom.

She silently thanked whatever gods may be that she'd had shoes on before the whole fiasco, otherwise she'd be running barefoot. The wet grass was plummeted into submission by the ever-present rain as she practically flew into the surrounding trees.

She ground to a halt.

_I don't remember anything like this near the house. There definitely was never a forest before. No way I would have missed that. Where am I?_

Looking curiously around her, Caellyn's vivid purple eyes took in the woods around her, her gaze calculating.

An edge crept into her skin, prickling, making the hair on her arms stand on edge. Something wasn't right. This wasn't natural.

She heard the soft crack of a branch being stepped on, the telltale sign that she wasn't alone. It didn't take her much time to react: a girl by herself in the woods with someone, some_thing _silently with her.

Before she even finished the thought she was running. Running faster than she ever had in her life, barely stopping to glance ahead at where she was going, utterly terrified. Much to her dismay, she heard more cracking of branches, louder than before. It was chasing her. In that instant she realized her mistake. She should have run _out_ of the forest, but instead she was tearing further and further in without the slightest inkling of where it would end. She was trapped in the bright, sickly green forest. Thorns grabbed at her jeans and scratched her face, arms, hands – any flesh they could grab at. Rain sheeted down from the branches above and roots reached up from the ground, grasping for her feet.

She shut her eyes, somehow hoping that would block out the noise of pursuit, praying fervently for it to go away. It made no sense. She had no recollection of this forest even being here, and why was she being chased? What was even happening? But she wasn't tempted to go back. Not ever, not back to the family that hated her so much. Amy…She felt a tight ripping in her chest.

_I can't go back. Not even for Amy. She can survive without me. But I can't survive there, not if I intend to keep any semblance of sanity._

Caellyn kept running, too frightened to look back. The forest was a green blur around her as she kept running, running, desperate for the sounds of pursuit to die out, allowing her to catch a breath. She opened her eyes just in time to see the ground rushing up to meet her as she tripped over one of the many roots. Damp moss smeared over her face and she felt warm blood trickling down her knee as it scraped against a stone, penetrating through her jeans. She groaned miserably, pushing her head above the ground as her eyes snagged on something. There was a huge, pulsing white light that she made out through the forest. She blinked again, making sure that it wasn't a figment of imagination, or a result from her fall.

But there it was. White. Pulsing. Inviting.

She pushed herself up off the ground, oblivious to the cloaked being that stood silent, watching her every move with growing trepidation.

Caellyn brushed aside the branches, ignoring the piercing pain of the thorns as they punctured her skin. She gasped, getting a clear, unadulterated view of the monstrous, blinding white light standing but a few feet in front of her.

It held to a circular shape, towering several feet above Caellyn, its depths were a swirling mixture of white and rippling transparency. Images swirled within its depths, and for once Caellyn felt a calm stupor fall over her. She had never felt such utter peace as she had with the light in front of her. In the back of her mind her logic whispered _don't touch it, be careful _but in the foremost of her brain, was the screaming voice, the one which told her to run to it, to sate her curiosity.

In the end, the curiosity won out and she slowly approached the strange light, this tear in the fabric of nature. She continued on towards the blinding light. No, _being,_ for that's what it was – it seemed to rejoice and hum contentedly as Caellyn neared it, reaching a hand out.

_Don't! _The voice in the back of her head whispered, startling Caellyn. The voice was that of a man's. But she quickly shook her head, willing to claim insanity for the moment and reached out to touch it.

White engulfed her vision, swallowing out every other sense. It felt as if a hostile being was charging through her entire body, rage sweeping through every vein. Fear coursed within her as she stood; immobilized as she felt _it, _the hostile being, sweep memories she had long forgotten through her mind.

It brought forth memories of her at the orphanage flowing seemlessly through every last one as it reached Caellyn at the tender age of six, hearing that she was to be adopted and the joy that she felt at someone wanting her. How the joy turned to apprehension at the sight of her unwelcoming new family. Her nervousness at going off to school and how her fears were confirmed by the rejection she faced from her fellow classmates. How she first came to realize Fred's strange infatuation with her and how she came to accept that she wasn't normal, her anger towards her real parents for abandoning her, even in death. All her memories of every day in her life swept through her mind in a blur until they lead up to her current age of thirteen and her recent fight and flight, and her fear of being followed.

The strange being had grown less and less hostile as it examined her memories, but the lancing pain she experienced as it forced itself through her memories was unbearable. Her head pounded as if it were about to explode, while simultaneously feeling as though someone were taking a screw driver to her brain.

Then the memories faded back to the never-ending white, and the being seemed pleased with her, but still guarded and even…even confused. It flashed a picture of a man in Caellyn's mind, clearing her of any other stray thought.

He had hair the exact color of moonlight which reached past his shoulders. He held himself with the grace of one who expected unquestioning obedience. His pale face was, of course, perfect. But it wasn't his stunning features that captivated Caellyn's attention, nor even was it that his face was accented with pointed ears, but it was his eyes. They were the same vivid purple that Caellyn had grown up being mocked and ridiculed for. The strange man's eyes were wise, intelligent, _understanding_ – as if he knew what she was going through. She felt a flood of nostalgia ache within her. She _knew_ this man.

But then his face faded, and once more she felt utterly alone in the world. Without any regard for her own safety she rushed ahead into the blinding light – in search of the familiar man – even as she felt a fiery, searing pain course through her. She tried to take a steadying breath only to realize that she couldn't; there was no air for her lungs. Fear gripped her and she squeezed her eyes shut, only to be greeted by white once more and she began to sprint further, faster into the light.

She didn't know how far she ran, nor how long for time itself seemed to slow as she continued running. Then the white faded to black and clean air like she had never smelled before rushed into her starved lungs. She opened her eyes.

It was night time here, and a calming breeze ruffled the grass Caellyn's feet and she took in another grateful breath of the intoxicating, clean air around her. The stars had graced the sky with their beauty and as she stopped to admire them, her breath caught in her throat. These weren't the familiar stars of those on Earth. These were the stars of some different world. Fear grappled her heart as the realization hit her.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw a dark shape in the distance, and she knew without a doubt that it was a castle. Her stomach lurched as she felt an unreasonable fear clutch at her, and the overcoming sense of déjà vu.

_You shouldn't have left,_ The male voice in her mind whispered.

She whirled around, expecting to see the strange light-portal to be there, ready to take her home. Her heart stopped dead.

Instead there was a man in a dark cloak was behind her, his eyes glowed the startling hue of blood-red. He laughed maniacally at the frozen girl in front of him, and then stopped abruptly, muttering something in a language she had never heard before.

"Malthinae!"

Her limbs instantly were bound together by invisible bonds, and she couldn't budge an inch. Fear widened her eyes as the strange man laughed again, his head reaching back to reveal his scarlet red hair, a matching color of his disturbing eyes. She vaguely wondered if that was the same emotion others felt when they looked into her equally unnatural eyes.

The sound of her silent gasp seemed to bring the cruel man back to reality and he looked her up and down.

"Worthless," he assessed smugly, "What could dear Galbatorix want with you? Ah well, the second child to add to his collection then."

Caellyn glanced around her quickly, as if expecting to see another person struggling with the same invisible bonds she herself did. There was no one.

The strange flame-haired man sniffed disdainfully at her, "at least the other one puts up fights. You can't even do that, can you?"

Caellyn barely had the chance to think another confused, infuriated thought before the demonic man whispered once more, in a commanding tongue,

"Slytha."

Instant darkness greeted her.

**A/N: Did ya like it? Please review! As you can see she isn't just some random girl they snatched from our planet. Next chapter up is going to be Eragon's P.O.V. as he, Saphira and everyone else has to deal with the aftermath of the battle at Feinster and having to come to terms with Oromis' and Glaedr's death. I will be having lots of chapters from Murtagh's POV as well in future chapters. Constructive criticism is accepted, as well as any ideas you might have (no flames please), just tell me what you thought, or what you thinks gonna happen. Every time you don't review Caellyn gets tortured by Galby! So seriously...review ;)**

**EDIT: made slight grammar edits and A/N edits thanks to Dragnerz for his feedback!**


	2. C1 A Lengthy Awakening

**A/N: I really got inspired by this story and decided to type up another chapter really fast. I think I'm falling in love with this story:) If you have any questions, comments or anything I'll be happy to answer them in my next A/N. Please enjoy! (and review) Feedback is appreciated!**

Chapter One: A Lengthy Awakening

"If a man hasn't discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live."

-Martin Luther King Jr.

Three Years Later (Current Story Time, right after Brisingr)

The sun was descending into the portion of rippling waters that belonged to the seemingly endless ocean. Eragon saw, but didn't really notice what was happening to the scenery about him. He was leaning comfortably against Saphira, his eyes half closed as painful memories flashed beneath their brown confines. Normally the sight would have taken the breath from the young rider, but his mind was robbed of him and all he could feel was that of heart-stopping grief.

_Alone._

_ All alone!_

Glaedr's last agonizing thoughts before he retreated into his Eldunarí, echoed over and over in Eragon's mind. Eragon felt Glaedr's pain over and over as his connection with his partner-of-body-and-mind Oromis died. It felt for Eragon, just as shocking that Oromis died as it was the first time he had experienced it through Glaedr's Eldunarí. He felt an involuntary tremor wrack through his frame as his eyes began to overflow and leak more tears down his face.

Their mentors were gone. Brom…Glaedr…Oromis. Who was left to teach him? Without a proper knowledge and understanding of the Ancient Language there wasn't even the slightest chance of him defeating Galbatorix. Not by himself. Not alone.

_You are never alone._

Saphira.

He smiled bitter sweetly at his sapphire dragon, grateful for her ever present comfort in their time of grief.

_Of course, Saphira. It's just…_

_ I know, little one. I miss them too._

More memories flooded into his mind as another sob tore from his throat. He felt helpless being forced to continuously be haunted by memories of The Cripple Who Is Whole and his larger than life gold dragon's death. But more than that, he felt…guilty. Another wave of numbing emotion washed over him. If he had been in Gil'ead…if he had gone with them then –

_Then what? _Saphira cut into his thoughts sharply, before they could get any darker, _what would you have done? Would you have killed Murtagh?_

Eragon mentally flinched back and felt Saphira's apology without her needing to voice it.

_Besides, _she softened up, _think of all the Varden lives you saved! And those of the citizens of Feinster. You even saved Arya from the Shade, Varaug._

Eragon agreed reluctantly, but it didn't empty him of all his guilt. He still felt partially responsible for the deaths of his the ancient dragon and rider. Perhaps if he had been faster in reaching Ajihad and Murtagh he would have been able to save them from the Twins. And in that, Oromis never would have had to fight against Murtagh and Thorn. If only he had the power he had now! He would have run to them in seconds, saving them from their ill begotten fate. But then he didn't have his elven speed or strength from the Agaetí Blödhren. The completely human Eragon was forced to watch in escalating horror as the urgals overcame his friend, and at the time unknown, brother along with the previous leader of the Varden. Kidnapping the former and decimating the latter. If he could have reached them in time then Murtagh never would have been lead to Galbatorix by the traitorous Twins…

_Eragon! _Saphira's alarmed thoughts reached him again, _the past is the past. You cannot change it, no matter how you yearn to. If we all spent each moment mourning that which we cannot mend we would be left as naught but hollow shells of a once greater being, left with no will to live. For all would have the ever present fear of something happening that we cannot change. Think of Oromis – he wouldn't want you to grieve for him. He would want you to remember his sacrifice. To remember that he died for a cause you and I, of the living_ _are fighting for._

_ You're right, _Eragon sighed, trying to clear the betraying thoughts from his mind.

_Of course I am, _she replied contentedly, snuggling up to him.

Eragon let out a brief sigh of content, as he allowed his slanted eyes to flutter shut, exhausted from his work that day, and the many days previous to it.

The aftermath of the battle of Feinster was that of great work. For one, there was the city's wall to repair and fortify, along with the ravaged entrance to the fortress. For if Feinster was to become the new headquarters of the Varden it needed to be much stronger than it had been previous to the battle. Anyone who entered the city from either gate was to have their mind inspected by one of the more powerful members of the Du Vrangr Gata. There was also the matter of repairing the buildings that had been destroyed inside the city's walls and keeping down any rebel upstarts who wished to gain glory by dying for King and country. It was pointless suicide in Eragon's mind and it angered him that so many would thoughtlessly throw away their lives when life was such a fragile, precious thing. How could those so worthless keep their lives, while those like Brom or Oromis lost theirs? What god would allow such a travesty to exist?

_Eragon... we are not to judge such matters. Be content that these so-called gods have granted you a life to do with as you see fit, and do not hope for the enigmas of time to be revealed to you._

_ You sound like Oromis._

_ Thank you, little one. Now rest. We're going to need our energy for tomorrow if Nasuada continues to keep us working on repairing Feinster, so as to boost the morale of the Varden._

Eragon sensed Saphira's disdain at being treated like a common pack animal and it brought a whisper of a smile to his lips.

_Perhaps she will send us to Gil'ead to pay our last respects to Oromis and Glaedr?_

_ Perhaps. Now rest, little one! My hunt has worn me and I desire rest more than anything as of present._

Eragon was silent as he poured all but a sliver of his energy into Aren, the elven ring Brom had given him upon his death, and Saphira did the same.

_ I love you, Saphira._

_ And I you, Eragon._

Saphira's overpowering flood of warm love sent through their shared bond was the last thing Eragon felt before he drifted into the quiet of his waking dreams.

It was dawn when Eragon awoke, the sun barely having awoken from slumber itself, breaking through the cover of trees that scattered about the fortress that was Feinster. The bright orange light flooded his vision, making a stunning portrait as it cut through the fog surrounding the castle, making a beautiful color as it cut across the trees and empty plains.

Eragon sat up from where he had been resting, instantly regretting having decided to sleep on the sand. There was sand in his hair which refused to leave his scalp, even when he scrubbed at it with his fingers.

_Saphira? _Eragon called out mentally, wondering where she had gone off to so soon in the morning. Saphira did not appreciate the early hours of the say and was usually found fast asleep at such an ungodly hour of the day.

He scanned the landscape in front of him, studying every cloud and empty patch of sky for the telltale sign of a shadow, or the flapping of her but saw nothing.

There was a loud cracking sound and the unmistakable sound of rushing water coming from behind him. Eragon whirled about to face the ocean again.

_Yes, little one? _Came Saphira's smug reply. She shook off her wings like a dog right after a bath, both chilling and soaking Eragon to the bone.

_That's what you get for comparing me to one your hairy over-grown rats, _she answered his unspoken complaint.

In her jaws was a huge fish – bigger than Eragon – which she quickly set about demolishing. The monstrosity in her jaws was soon barely recognizable as a fish. It was a few moments before Eragon could find control over his body and then shut his jaw, because as Saphira so politely put it, it was "unbecoming to gape about like a bumbling oaf who just realized that he does in fact have five toes on each of his feet."

Eragon dove into his pack, pulling out the leftovers from his meal the night previous. It was a scanty gathering of nuts, seeds, stale bread and cheese. He consumed it in a few swift gulps. It hardly constituted a proper meal, but he wasn't overly hungry either. He grabbed at his empty flagon, pulling it from the confines of his bag, walking over towards the edge of the ocean. There he filled it to the brim with the salty sea water. He uttered a few swift words in the Ancient Tongue, removing all the salt from his drink and downed the frigid water, cooling his parched mouth. He repeated the cleansing method twice more, once to pour through his sand-encrusted, matted down hair and the other for later use, if so needed.

Eragon resolved to take a bath as soon as was allowed as he patiently waited against Saphira's side while she continued to devour her fleshy conquest. In the mean time he let his mind wander to that of the beings about him. He felt hundreds of tiny consciences: from the birds flitting about in their sanctum of trees to the fish swimming in endless circles through the fathoms-deep, dark confines of their watery home. It was mildly irritating to Eragon as he continued to sense the conscience mind of the fish when he felt an overpowering surprise of there being a world around him and even that he existedin it, when he felt this same shock every few seconds. He soon realized that it was the fish's memory being erased over and over, as it forgot any and every scanty memory it had managed to gain in the past few seconds. Eragon quickly decided to see through the eyes of the birds darting around their green homes, singing to a beautiful new day. They were brimming to the full with such joyful, happy energy as if there was nothing evil in the world. A sense of peace entered Eragon as he flew around the trees with his fellow birds.

But then the nagging sense of reality brought him back down to the ground, and back into his own body.

_We should return to the fortress, Nasuada will be wondering as to our whereabouts._

Eragon felt Saphira's wordless agreement as she stood up, licking at her scales to remove any sand that felt the unnecessary obligation to cling to her shiny jewel-like armor. Eragon swiftly jumped atop Saphira, settling safely in between neck-spikes. Saphira hadn't felt the need for a saddle on such a short journey, and he agreed that it was unneeded weight. Saphira launched into the air with relative ease, her monstrous claws leaving foreboding prints in the sand below.

It had been several days since the Varden's victory in Feinster and the city had made an entire turn around. The Varden had really put their best effort into repairing the fortress and homes therein. If not for the tents scattered about the rare areas of space between the many buildings one might not have guessed that a siege had taken place, but a few days previous. Eragon felt a pain in his heart as he felt the presence of pain and lingering death as Saphira descended into Feinster. She landed cleanly into the clearing set aside next to the keep that Nasuada now occupied. The area was cleared expressly for the purpose of allowing Saphira room to land and take off, much to her satisfaction.

A guard swiftly rushed out of the building, rushing up to Eragon.

"Lady Nasuada wishes your company, Shadeslayer." Eragon noticed bitterly how once again, Saphira had been disregarded as no more than a dumb brute.

"Saphira and I," Eragon said pointedly, "will be up momentarily."

The guards eyes flicked to Saphira warily as she growled faintly at him. He gulped.

"Of…of course. I shall –" He began.

"Don't bother," Eragon cut off promptly, "by the time you reach her we shall already have arrived." The guard nodded, and turned about to return to his post inside of the keep.

Saphira alighted once more, pumping her wings gracefully as they gained altitude. She stopped when she was just high enough the building to glide into the gaping hole in the stone wall on the topmost floor. She landed gracefully onto the stone floor and the two made their way to the door. Eragon dismounted and then consulted with the Nighthawks on his entry to the adjacent room.

"Eragon Shadeslayer requests an audience." A muffled voice sounded from within, and two of the guards nodded to each other, swinging the doors open.

"Milady," Eragon bowed his head respectfully, while Saphira poked her head through the door as far as she could. Eragon sensed her discomfort and her preference for the tent Nasuada used when the Varden and Surda's combined numbers had been but an encampment on the outskirts of the Burning Plains.

"Eragon," Nasuada greeted, barely pausing to look up from her maps. Jörmundur was to her right, to supply tactical advice when needed. King Orrin sat on a couch further from the room, consulting with his own advisors. Arya and Blödhgarm, who were also in the room turned from Nasuada at Eragon's arrival so as to greet him.

Arya offered Eragon a small consoling smile which didn't quite touch her eyes, and Blödhgarm nodded respectfully while murmuring,

"Shadeslayer."

"Good," Nasuada pushed away the map closest to her, "Now we're all here."

She looked towards Eragon pointedly, her gaze lingering on his bag, "We _are _all here, correct?"

Eragon nodded swiftly, ignoring Blödhgarm's piercing gaze. Even among the elves the eldunarí was a well-kept secret, and he hadn't been given the authority to inform the fur-covered elf of Glaedr's survival.

"Alright," She sighed heavily, her façade of strength slipping for an instant before she regained composure, lifting her chin up high, "I have contacted Queen Islanzadí and she informs me that the funeral for Oromis and Glaedr is to be held in Osilon, the elven city of Oromis' upbringing. It is to be held within the week and I have Blödhgarm and Arya here permission to pay their last respects."

Eragon felt his throat tighten.

"Blödhgarm and Arya," He repeated, noticing Nasuada's hesitation.

"Yes," She answered, after another moment's silence.

"But," Eragon chose his words carefully, so as not to lose temper, "Not mine?"

"Eragon." In that one word Eragon felt all of Nasuada's exhaustion, the stress of her high position and her anxiety – waiting for his tirade to ensue.

"Why, may I ask?" He struggled to keep his voice even, but even he couldn't completely cover the aching to see his teachers one last time.

"We cannot spare you for such a long time,"

"Lady Nasua –"

"Now hear me out, Eragon," Nasuada cut through him quickly, drowning out his words, "You will not be allowed to be there at his _funeral_."

The only thing that kept Eragon from spewing out a furious tirade at her was Saphira's warning.

_Wait. Hear her out. She is still leader of the Varden, and you have not heard her proposition. If we do not both agree to it, then you may voice your opinions on the matter. But I would advise you wait until then for now._

Eragon felt a low growl escape his lips.

"At most I can spare you for a handful of days. Queen Islanzadí and I know it is imperative you pay your respects to Oromis and Glaedr, both for appearance and for your sanity. However, we both agree that leaving the Varden unprotected for so long is foolhardy. You will fly out today to Gil'ead, where you may pay your dues to the remains of Oromis and…" Nasuada's voice caught suddenly, repressing a shudder, "and Glaedr."

Eragon frowned, picking up on her shaking voice. He studied her cautiously with his brown eyes, but the leader of the Varden revealed no more.

"Lady –" He began, only to be interrupted by her once more.

_Eragon! _Nasuada's urgent voice caught his mind off guard, as he hadn't seen the need to set up mental barriers, preferring to keep himself wary of the beings around him, both hostile and friendly.

_Yes?_

_ Has Glaedr awoken? _She asked pressingly.

Eragon felt another bout of confusion course through him, _Wha- No._

Eragon felt Nasuada's relief in her next few words, _I would advise you, Eragon Shadeslayer to not inform Glaedr of what you find in Gil'ead. It could prove only to push him further towards the brink of insanity._

_ Of what do you speak? _Eragon questioned her, wary now.

_I would not lay more troubles upon you now, Eragon. You shall see for yourself when you arrive. But promise me, you will not tell Glaedr unless he demands it of you._

When Eragon reluctantly agreed she retreated from his mind to face the room at large.

"I wish that I could see the fabled dragon and rider myself, but seeing as I have many other duties," Nasuada let out a chilling laugh, her face devoid of any merriment, "I cannot. It will have to suffice that I send you, Eragon, as representative of the Varden and the dwarves.

"Now," Nasuada rose imperiously from her chair looking at the many faces around her, "I suspect you, Eragon, will have preparations to make. You needn't inform me of your departure. When you arrive in Gil'ead I must ask however, that you tell me of your safe arrival. Do not stay there to grieve for more than a day. The Varden cannot spare you at the time, and I cannot lose you to grief. Do you understand?"

Eragon nodded tightly, knowing he had no other choice. If he disagreed Nasuada, as his liege lord would order him to, and pressing her to such extremes would only cause a rift in their relationship.

Her tense face relaxed slightly as she noticed his submission. Eragon got up from his chair stiffly; he bowed his head and then turned without another word.

_Let's get ready to leave, Saphira. I don't think I can stand one more moment in this suffocating trap of death and power._

_ I quite agree, little one. Dragons are not meant to be caged within the walls of a fortress. I long for the air beneath my wings and the cool moisture at my scales, and you by my side. We shall leave._

_Wait, _Eragon hesitated, _I should tell Roran. He'll be furious with me if I don't tell him why I'm leaving. Besides, he deserves to know._

_ And what do you expect me to do in the meantime? _Eragon felt her enraged response, and he smiled in expectation of his own.

_Remember, Saphira, you're a wild dragon. You wouldn't want a pesky two-legs telling you what to do with your time._

_ You're right, _She replied indignantly, and without another mental word she flew off from the keep and into the skies. After sensing his alarm she told him,

_I'm just going to fly, hatchling. Talk with your nest mate if you wish. But hurry, for wild dragons are quite impatient._

Eragon nodded to her, before realizing she couldn't see. He shrugged it off as he realized he would have to descend the keep on his own. Sighing in frustration, he turned to use the stairs as a normal human would. But then he remembered. He walked up to the edge of the gaping hole which had been torn from the stone walls in the siege and lifted the hand which bore the gedwëy ignasia, and muttered a string of words in the ancient language.

He instantly felt himself lift off the ground into the air. Ignoring the shock from Nasuada's personal guard, the Nighthawks, he lowered himself down to the ground. He wondered if he would ever adjust to the feeling of weightlessness coupled with the strange sensation of having nothing beneath his feet and the treacherous height between himself and the ground. He refused to look down until he was level with the other houses – he didn't need another bout of nausea.

When he reached the ground he released the magic, feeling a slight drain in his energy. He propelled his mind outward, searching for the familiar but guarded conscience of his cousin Roran. He soon found him, working on fortifying the wall against possible attackers with his allotment of men.

As he approached he sensed fear and trepidation in the air from the surrounding Varden as they noticed his arrival.

"Shadeslayer," They acknowledged, lowering their eyes and then returning to their work.

When he arrived at his cousin's side, he found Roran issuing orders to the men on how to better the fortifications,

"No not there, Kilhons! It's meant to be the part that holds them all together, not a weak link. If you place that beam there, this entire segment of the wall will be lost in a matter of moments in the event of an enemy!"

The subdued soldier went about correcting his mistake, and Roran offered him a comforting pat on the shoulder before turning around to face Eragon.

"I told you, Ba – Oh it's you, Eragon."

"Quite impressive," Eragon looked around proudly at his cousin's handiwork.

"You hear that?" Roran turned back around to face his soldiers, "Shadeslayer here thinks you've done a good job!" He smiled at the heartened warriors before speaking again, "I am not a shadeslayer though, and I know for a fact that you can do much better. Come now, prove me right! Show me your best effort!"

Roran turned back to Eragon, "I assume you didn't come here just for idle chat."

Eragon's face fell a bit, "No, I didn't. I have to tell you something important."

"Now?" He checked. Eragon nodded and Roran turned once more back to his men, "Alright men, I'll be back momentarily, in the mean time Blarn here's in charge."

Eragon led his bulkier cousin away from the curious glances and into a more deserted area of the town.

"What is it?" Roran asked warily, studying Eragon's every movement.

"I'm going to be leaving today for Gil'ead."

Shock flitted across Roran's features,

"Gil'ead? Why? The elves already conquered it, to my recollection."

"And there's two reasons that they didn't lose that battle," Eragon masked his pain with a cold indifference, "I go to Gil'ead to pay my final respects."

"Who was it?" Roran asked bluntly.

"My teachers from Ellesméra," Eragon responded, contemplating revealing their real identity. Arya hadreleased him from his oath of secrecy and seeing as they no longer posed a threat to the Empire there was no reason he shouldn't, "A dragon and his rider who escaped from The Fall."

Roran's breath caught, "Another rider?" He confirmed.

"Yes."

"Why the blazes didn't he show himself before? He could have prevented so much bloodshed! He might have been able to stop Galbatorix! Carvahall might –"

"No, Roran," Eragon cut off sharply, "You didn't let me name him. He has many names, some of which being The Mourning Sage, The Cripple Who Is Whole, I however called him Oromis. His golden dragon was Glaedr. They were captured by the Forsworn during The Fall and were tortured by Kialandí and Formora. How they managed to escape I was never told, but they didn't do so unscathed. For Glaedr's part his left leg was decimated, and a stump was left in his place. Oromis bore a much worse wound; his will had been broken. Even casting the simplest of spells was a fight for him; he was disabled. More than that, I know he would have fought if that were all, but he knew he would be a liability to anyone he fought with. He would be a burden to them. A dragon rider is never meant to be so crippled. We are meant to be powerful magicians. So he retreated into the heart of Ellesméra with the hopes of another rider hatching Saphira's egg. He was our mentor and taught me things I never would have learned on my own. Without Oromis, I doubt I would be here now," Eragon's voice caught.

It took Roran several moments to speak, "Why did Oromis and Glaedr fly out to battle if they were so crippled?"

"They were done with hiding. They knew their time had come; they had trained me, the last truly free dragon rider. They have passed into the void which waits for us when we die, abandoning their wounds from this world."

"I see," Roran was deep in thought, "and I suppose Murtagh and his dragon were the ones who killed them."

"No," Eragon took in a deep breath, startling Roran, "not exactly. Galbatorix possessed Murtagh when it was clear that Glaedr would defeat Thorn, and Oromis Murtagh. While Oromis was having a seizure – another repercussion from his torture – he was immobilized, and that's when Galbatorix struck. Glaedr, in a righteous fury, sent Murtagh and Thorn flying and broke the spell that held him in place. He kept flying, flying," Eragon felt his voice start cracking, and had to wait a few seconds to regain composure, "he knew that if he could only reach the ground, Oromis could be saved by the elven healers. But Oromis was slipping from him, into the void. That's when Thorn snuck up on him, and Glaedr, the dragon was no more." Eragon felt the need to add the last part because Glaedr, the eldunarí was quite alive. Glaedr still hadn't shown any signs of waking from his mourning, and Eragon hadn't the heart to do so.

Roran looked shaken, "Galbatorix has much to answer for."

"Yes."

"And you're to do it, little cousin?"

"Or die trying."

Roran gripped Eragon in a bear hug, "Good luck, my brother."

With that Roran turned around to return to his men, and Eragon set about finding supplies for his journey to Gil'ead, with the impatient humming from Saphira as a constant incentive to quicken his pace.

It was within the hour that Saphira landed back in the clearing of rubble near the keep, so that Eragon could pack his supplies for the journey into her saddle. He packed in food and drink, the bag which held Glaedr's eldunarí, and securely fit his precious new sword Brisingr in the saddle as well.

Eragon mounted Saphira in a single, fluid motion, feeling her excitement and trepidation as a new journey began for the two.

_Are you ready, Saphira? _Eragon sent out mentally, _Are we ready to see them this one last time?_

_ Yes, Eragon. We are ready._

The ground was a blur and the wind was a rushing storm about Eragon as Saphira took into flight, sending his hair flying in every which direction, and bighting at his skin as she steadily flapped her wings to gain the perfect altitude. She evened off high in the clouds, where the moisture in the air clung to Eragon's scalp and glistened on Saphira's gem-like, blue scales. The town of Feinster beneath them was but a bustling blob, filled with miniscule dots milling about. Saphira began to glide in the northeast direction of Gil'ead, where they both knew their mentors had fought their very last battle.

The journey to Gil'ead was swift and uneventful. Saphira landed only to sate her hunger, and Eragon to relieve himself. He once again ate in the saddle, and fell into the sleep that was his waking dreams, listening to the rhythm of Saphira's wings pushing up, and thumping down.

When Eragon awoke he was flooded by the aching in Saphira's limbs. He instantly felt for the magic within him but was stopped by Saphira's voice.

_No, little one! This will build my endurance. I need to be prepared for a time when you cannot lend me your strength. I view this as practice for the future travels I will carry us through._

_ I hate to feel you suffer._

_ You may give me energy when we arrive, _She relented.

It was several more hours before Gil'ead came into sight, some time in the late afternoon. Saphira seemed strengthened by the sight of the ever-growing city. Eragon squinted his half-elf-eyes in the direction of the looming structure. There was the tell-tale sign of the sun glinting off gold scales. Eragon felt his nerve fail him, and he suddenly wished to turn around without even having arrived. He didn't know if he could see his mentors in this state, he wanted to remember them as alive and strong.

_That's a terrible excuse for not seeing them. _Saphira chided him, _Besides, if you don't see them now we both know how you'll regret it._

_ You're right. It was just my anxiety thinking._

_ I feel it too. Great evil has visited here. I do not desire to know what it has done, but I feel as if we shall before this sun sets on the horizon._

_ I hope you are wrong._

Saphira let the thought go unchallenged as they drew closer and closer to Gil'ead. Without any warning Saphira let out a furious roar. Her scream echoed to the heavens and beyond, of that Eragon was sure. Every muscle in her body was tense and when Eragon tried to discern what he could from her mind he found it entirely blocked from him.

Another roar rent the air as Saphira sang her grief to the darkening skies. She loosed flames with her next roar, the blue heat tickled Eragon's senses as he felt the flame rush by.

Saphira quickened her descent towards Gil'ead and then Eragon saw. He saw why Saphira had loosed such a cry. He saw why Nasuada's frame had wracked as if she had seen a ghost.

For there, outside the walls of Gil'ead lay the decimated body of Glaedr. Eragon's eyes were flooding before he quite realized what it was he saw. The golden dragon had been ripped apart, as if someone had ransacked him looking for an unknown treasure.

Eragon felt dread seep into his heart as he realized why Glaedr's once magnificent body had been mangled. Galbatorix had searched – in vain – for possession of Glaedr's eldunarí.

_He must know we have it, _Eragon thought bitterly.

_What evil has done this? _Saphira's overwhelming rage drowned out any other emotion he felt. Eragon's eyes had obtained a fierce, fiery glow in their depths, a mockery of the sun's own light. Saphira landed by Glaedr's side before lifting her head to the heavens, throwing out another jet of flame.

Eragon dismounted Saphira in a nimble jump, and he slowly turned to face his now deceased teachers. Eragon's knees buckled as he studied up close the damage that had been dealt to Glaedr, when the dragon could no longer could protect his own body. He looked up at his mentor, eyes pouring out salty tears, and a dragon-like roar tore from his throat.

_Whoever did this. They will pay. They will pay for ravaging his body. Galbatorix will suffer for this. _

The pair sat in silence, wallowing in each other's thoughts as misery flooded back and forth through their bond. Long after the sun had set under the Spine, Eragon felt another presence besides his own and Saphira.

"So you see now what we fight," Came a cool voice, sounding from behind them. But beneath the voice, in an underlying tone Eragon could sense the anger. The fury.

He didn't turn around to face the new stranger; his body was too exhausted to even pick himself up from the ground. The figure moved closer to Eragon, arriving at his side. Eragon saw from his peripheral vision that the stranger was Queen Islanzadí herself. A few moments passed before he found his voice, standing to face her.

He turned his hand about and began the customary elvish greeting, "Atra esterní ono –"

"No, Eragon," The Queen cut through him, "You may abandon your courtesy in this time of grief. I understand."

A long silence passed between them, though it wasn't uncomfortable. It was a respectful silence. Then Eragon spoke, his voice no more than a saddened whisper,

"How could this have happened?"

_How could the elves have allowed this to happen? _He seethed to Saphira.

"Many elves died protecting Glaedr's body from Thorn," Islanzadí answered coolly. Eragon's stomach lurched – Thorn had done this?

"More would have, if I had not ordered them to stop," The Elven Queen continued, "You were already lost, you must understand. I couldn't sacrifice more of my people, old friend," Islanzadí seemed to have forgotten Eragon's presence, speaking directly to Glaedr, as she tried to convince herself her choice was the right one.

"Is there any way I could mend him?" Eragon questioned, reaching out to touch the dragon softly.

"Sadly, I think not," Islanzadí answered, "The only reason Oromis could heal such a vast creature as Glaedr was because of their bond. The strain might very well kill you. I will not risk the one free dragon rider's life to mend that of Glaedr's deceased body."

"…I understand," Eragon managed.

"Has he awoken?" Islanzadí whispered.

Eragon sighed, "No. I'm not sure how much time is proper to allow him for grieving. I do not wish to disturb him."

"He should know of what befell him."

"Lady Nasuada has ordered me from telling him. Unless he is to directly ask it of me, I will not inform him of it."

"Why is this?" The Queen's voice had regained its composure, and she tilted her chin up, authoritatively – ready to issue commands if needs be.

"She believes the grief would be too maddening, and it is an unnecessary cruelty," Eragon wasn't sure how he felt about the matter. He knew it would greatly anger the golden dragon, who refused to tolerate even the slightest wrong.

"My old friend would want to know. If you do not tell him then I shall. You will suffer no consequences as Nasuada has no such hold over me. If you were ever to lose possession of Glaedr's eldunarí then he would need to know this. It would help him fight against Galbatorix, he would not be broken."

Eragon's silence was his agreement, and he returned back to mourning Oromis and Glaedr. His eyes finally drifted from the body that lay beside the massacred dragon. Eragon expected it to be like the many funerals he had attended at Carvahall – he expected Oromis' body to look as though he were resting.

However, Oromis' neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, and his features had the subtle hints of extreme pain on them. His arms had been left at his sides, his sword had been retrieved. All the wounds on his flesh had been mended, but they were far too late to save him.

"Under normal circumstances his sword, Naegling, would have been buried with him, or given to family. Seeing as Oromis has no family and burying Naegling in the earth would be a sad waste of its power, I give it to you. Naegling has a vast amount of energy within, I know Oromis would have wished to aid you in any way he could. She walked respectfully to Oromis' corpse, kneeling down.

"Osthato Chetowä," She whispered, leaning over him. Her long black hair flooded down to cover her face, "I hope I do you no disservice in granting Eragon this boon." She fingered his face lightly, smoothing out his features to a more natural appearance and then stood up. She turned around to face Eragon, and then presented him with the bronze colored blade.

"I bestow Naegling upon you, Eragon. In memory of our dear Osthato Chetowä, Togira Ikonoka, The Mourning Sage, The Cripple Who Is Whole…Oromis, I give you this sword for safekeeping. May it never fall into the hands of the enemy."

"I accept Naegling, in the memory of my mentor, Master Oromis. I shall protect this sword with all but death, as I would have Oromis himself."

Queen Islanzadí nodded approvingly, "I expect nothing less of you, Shadeslayer."

Without another word she drew herself up to her full height, turned her face up slightly to adopt her customary regal appearance, and then turned about, walking back into the safe confines of the newly conquered Gil'ead.

Eragon knelt by the body of Oromis, placing his hand upon his brow. Then he began to speak in the ancient language, "Master Oromis," he started about awkwardly, searching for the right words to say, "thank you for all of the guidance you have given to Saphira and me. You and Glaedr both sacrificed yourselves to defeat Galbatorix. You will never be forgotten for your deeds. You will forever stay within our hearts. I promise you, as I know you would have wanted, that I will not mourn your death after tonight. I will rejoice in the life you lead while fresh air breathed in your lungs. Rest well, Master Oromis, last of the great riders."

Saphira added in a keening wail, and leaned down pressing her snout against Oromis' brow. Her deep sapphire eyes took in the elf for the last time. His straight, silver hair had been combed to perfection, reaching past his shoulders and he had been placed upon a stretcher. Miraculously his armor seemed to have been repaired of all damage, even down to the last nick.

Eragon stood up and walked over toward the leather saddled upon Saphira, fastening Naegling aside Brisingr. He unfastened a pair of leather cords, which bundled up one of the pouches in the saddle, taking out a protected bundle he had placed therein. Whispering the words in the Ancient Language he felt the bag ease up, and he reached down into it, pulling out the golden, jewel-like eldunarí that pulsed a dim light from within, containing the soul of Glaedr. Eragon respectfully placed Glaedr's heart of hearts next to Oromis, hoping that Glaedr would wake in time to see his life-bonded partner one more time.

Hours passed as the sun began to rise above the eastern of the sky. Eragon was just about to resign himself to the fact that Glaedr would stay within the safety of his mind when he felt a deep, ancient presence join his and Saphira's bond. The eldunarí that lay next to Oromis glowed brighter than ever and Eragon heard, deep within the heart of his own mind a wail the likes of which he had never heard in his life. It chilled him to the bone, and he felt such overwhelming grief surging unmercifully through every brain in his body that he was brought back to his knees.

Then, in an instant the pain receded, in its place was cold hard resolve; acceptance. He felt the alien mind take in its surroundings and then saw a sudden flooding of emotions spread through whatever being it could touch – even that of the birds high up in the sky. Eragon saw the hatching of Glaedr, through the dragon's very own eyes, the joyful surprise on Oromis' face, how they trained day in and day out, their first flight, and many more joyful memories flooded into his mind.

Eragon winced, closing the bond – these memories were not for him. Another hour passed before the bright eldunarí faded, but it still remained brighter, much more alive than it had the day previous.

_I have awoken, Eragon Shadeslayer, Saphira Bjartskular. I have awoken to assist you in your aid to destroy the egg-breaker, the madman, the murderer, the false king Galbatorix._

**A/N: The next chapter might take longer to post as I'm still working out the kinks in the plot line. Please tell me what you think!**


	3. C2 Convergence

**A/N: A special thanks to Dragnerz for his great review (and for being the first reviewer)! But sorry I haven't read The Sixth Sense (: And I took out the spoiler alerts per request. But don't worry; you're still in for a lot of surprises, of that I can assure you! I think this story has possessed me – I stay up at night thinking about how to make everything better. Haha, whatever. Please read and enjoy this! And review, definitely don't forget that; I need reviews to feed my muse.**

Chapter Two: Convergence

"One meets his destiny often in the road he takes to avoid it."

– Jean de La Fontaine

Murtagh felt the crisp, cold air bighting against his skin as he soared with his scarlet dragon higher and higher into the heavens. The overwhelming sense of freedom the pair felt when at such high altitudes wasn't parallel to anything in the lands of Alagaësia. For once Murtagh felt like he could be whatever he wanted to. He felt as if nothing held a claim to him – not Galbatorix, not his responsibility as a Rider, not his brother Eragon, not even the God in the heavens above. He felt his power vibrating deep within, and up there, he could feel as though he owed nothing to anyone but Thorn. He owed allegiance to no one and could do as he saw fit with the power given him. As the landscape beneath them flew by in a streak of colors that had no name, he knew that up here no one could reach him.

_We are only ever free in the skies, _Thorn voice boomed into his Rider's thoughts as the red dragon flew in intricate circles, relishing the power of his newly restored tail.

_Then the skies shall beware! _Murtagh spread his arms wide, laughing freely up to the heavens. It was a clear challenge to whatever beings may be, to prove him wrong. Murtagh felt Thorn's humming agreement as he warned Murtagh to hold on as he wove in and out of the currents in the sky that they so cherished, many of the maneuvers Thorn had picked up from Eragon's dragon Saphira, or the ancient gold dragon they had bested in Gil'ead.

Murtagh felt a twinge of regret from Thorn as he recounted how the crippled dragon had roared in agony as he felt the life of his Rider slip.

_The pain of losing our Rider is unbearable, _Thorn reminded him, _while many Riders may live out their dragon, the dragon rarely outlives the Rider._

_Why do you think that is? _Murtagh questioned as Thorn performed a joyous, twisting somersault in the frigid air about them.

_Perhaps it is in that the Rider experiences a life without his dragon, before it hatches for him…while us dragons are born to our Riders. We grow up from a hatchling to an ancient being such as The Gold One with the ever-present company of our Rider. Life without them is unimaginable for we have never had life without our Riders._

Murtagh shuddered internally; life without Thorn was inconceivable for him. Thorn was the only one who knew Murtagh inside and out, and loved him all the more. Murtagh opened up to no one else that way. The only person who had ever come close had been Eragon – Eragon, his brother. Eragon whose life Murtagh had saved twice – first when he rescued him from the Ra'zac, and then again when he risked his freedom to break Eragon out of Gil'ead. But no, that wasn't enough Murtagh had also passed up the opportunity to take Eragon and Saphira captive when they were at his mercy on the battle of the Burning Plains. This was the same Eragon who asked Murtagh to give up his and Thorn's lives for the _greater good;_ by allowing Eragon to kill them.

Murtagh snorted. His brother was quite the ungrateful one. How would Eragon _Shadeslayer _have managed if he were brought up in the castle of Urû'baen, under the constant watch of Galbatorix? How would he have fared if it was Thorn's egg and not Saphira's which had escaped the King's treasury? Would he feel guilty that a dragon had hatched for him? Unlikely. How would he have managed being tortured time and again for allowing his brother and dragon escape? How would he have done writhing on the floor in agony as Galbatorix discovered his true name?

Murtagh had never asked for this. He hadn't asked to be the bastard child of one of the most hated men in Alagaësia, second only to Galbatorix himself. All his life the only thing he had asked for was freedom, to breathe the air around him and know that it was his and his alone to do with as he pleased. What had Eragon done to deserve such freedom? Murtagh had been the one to risk himself repeatedly for his younger brother. He had been the one abandoned by Selena to experience an acute form of torture from an evil – and more likely than not, intoxicated – father. He suffered daily with the scar on his back as a reminder.

He had been wounded, and that wound wouldn't just go away. It had buried itself deep inside of Murtagh's psyche – it was more than just a scar by now. It was so far embedded in his conscience that he had grown to nurture the thing, and it could never be torn from him. The scar was just as much a part of Murtagh as his legs were. He had allowed it to grow, feeding off of his every thought. He relished in the power the hatred inside brought, and let it fester over the years. There was nothing that could make the odium relinquish the grip it held over the young Rider's heart.

_Do you know how many are left now? _Thorn's question permeated the raging stupor of Murtagh's swiftly darkening thoughts.

_What?_

_Three. Now there's only three._

Murtagh didn't answer Thorn immediately. He had no wish to dwell on matters that they had no control over.

_We did what we had to._

_I know we did, Murtagh. That doesn't mean I have to relish in it. In our race it is a disgrace punishable by death, to kill an Elder. The Gold One was an Elder._

Murtagh sighed – he had heard this all before. He fully understood Thorn's predicament: he was of a dying race, forced to watch as the dragons dwindled into exctinction.

_We are doomed, _Thorn concluded miserably, _I wonder if my sires knew that their hatchling would be forced to watch, helpless, as the last of our race vanishes from the face of Alagaësia._

_It isn't helpless, Thorn. There's still one egg left to hatch._

_It's a male, Murtagh. The only female dragon in existence is Saphira. We are doomed, _Thorn repeated.

Murtagh felt a sinking feeling deep within the pit of his stomach that Thorn was right, that the dragons would vanish to memory – and that too would fade, given time.

Suddenly the once-friendly skies around them seemed menacing. Those were the skies of a world which would sit and watch while the race of dragons faded, until they were but a forgotten myth. What world was that this be? The dragons were as much a part of Alagaësia as the unmoving Spine.

_I will not let that happen, _Murtagh growled, _there cannot be but four dragons left in existence. What happened to all the free, wild ones of your kind? Galbatorix couldn't have wiped all of them out. Or what if there are more ancient riders who still hide in seclusion, like that elf and his crippled dragon? _He thought the last with disgust. One of the last free Riders had been around the entire time – he had witnessed The Fall and done nothing. He had hidden with his handicapped dragon in the confines of that bloody elf-infested forest: Du Weldenvarden.

_Perhaps, _Thorn's mind whispered, slightly mollified as they drew into a steady quiet. Murtagh vaguely felt the familiar dread creep into the pit of his stomach – the selfsame dread he only felt when the evil castle of Urû'baen was near. They were returning back to imprisonment; not even the skies could hold them forever. They would ever be compelled to return, and he felt the understanding of his true name whisper slightly over his skin. He shuddered.

_Will Galbatorix allow us to search for my kin? Will he allow us to search for wild dragons?_

Murtagh guarded his mind from his dragon. Thorn may have been given the body of an experienced dragon, but his mind was still that of a new-born. Thorn didn't realize that Galbatorix would not allow his most prized possessions to go darting off on a whisper of a hope, to lands that Alagaësia itself would not claim.

_I don't know, Thorn, _Murtagh replied honestly, _maybe when this war is all over._

_If we survive you mean, _Thorn hinted at dryly.

_We will survive Thorn. That's what we are – survivors. You and I, we are the same. We are of one being, we will fight until the bitter end. We will destroy anyone who wishes to tear life from us._

_We fight against good people, Murtagh. We fight for an evil which has been allowed to fester unchallenged, for too long._

The simple naivety of the young dragon's mind still at times astounded Murtagh; of course the fought for the wrong side. But what could they do? Galbatorix knew their true names; their souls belonged to him. Not even if they ran to the ends of the world, could they hide them from the truth: they were forever the slaves of the Black King. They were to lead a life wrought with evil, nourished by hate.

Castle Ilirea drew ever closer, a knife in the dark. Murtagh felt his scalp prickle as he sensed the great amassing evil that resided in the castle. This was the place he had been tortured, over and over without respite – until Galbatorix was satisfied with Murtagh's suffering.

The castle itself had once been a beautiful structure, built by the elves when all of Urû'baen was known as Ilirea – before The Fall. After Galbatorix had conquered the city, he set about building upon the castle, tainting it with his evil. The castle had more than doubled from its original size, ominous spires loomed high above the onyx-hued stone walls that encased it. Upon closer inspection one would see that the spires reflected the lights of the sky with indifference, glinting off the many sharp edges which surrounded the pointed tip of each spire. What should have been a smooth texture surrounding the one spike, was as rough as the roiling waves of an ocean.

Castle Ilirea was uniformly black to the view of an outsider. In a terrible, bewitching way it was beautiful. The walls were no less than thirty feet thick and were virtually impenetrable. Castle turrets loomed upwards thirty feet above the walls, and every alternating turret had atop it one of the deadly glass spires. Although he couldn't see it at the moment, he knew that a thick door made of the matching enchanted melanoid glass reached halfway to the top of the towering walls.

Inside of the walls stretched a monstrous structure which reached up nearly twice as high as the height of the walls. This building tapered out to into what seemed to begin as a spire, but instead of a tip at the top, a flat smooth area occupied which was to allow easy landing and taking off for a dragon. Surrounding and reaching high above the landing area were more spires to top off the many towers which soared above the rest of the castle.

All about Castle Ilirea were the homes of the citizens, placed in uniformly designated areas and in the opposite side of Urû'baen were the barracks and training grounds for common foot-soldiers. What lay scattered in-between the two worlds – that of civilian and military – were the markets, inns and common stables. Another wall, just as thick as the one about the castle itself surrounded the entirety of Urû'baen. Of the inhabitants of the capital, most were soldiers. Not many wished to reside in the capital of the mad man himself, despite the substantially lower taxes, unless they were nobility or families of the said nobles – or, one of the fair few who supported King Galbatorix's reign of terror.

Thorn glided high above the castle, circling it a few times as he decreased in altitude. Instead of landing on the designated area, Thorn flew straight into the tower reserved especially for the two. The window was large enough to permit Thorn access without discomfort, and he leveled off on the stone floor with a dull thud. Murtagh patted Thorn affectionately on the shoulder.

_Good landing. I think you're finally getting the hang of it._

_ I wonder how we'll manage when I no longer fit through the window._

Murtagh grinned up at his red dragon, which was a rare occasion in itself, saying aloud, "You'll just have to make a bigger hole."

Thorn snorted a bout of flame in agreement before settling down for a quick nap that always came before he departed for his customary hunt.

_Are you sure you'll survive the duel tonight? _Thorn questioned sarcastically, and Murtagh felt a flare of pride race through the dragon. Murtagh smirked.

_The opponents Galbatorix pits me against get weaker and weaker._

_ Or perhaps you grow stronger and stronger, _Thorn countered. Murtagh liked the alternative that Thorn had supplied him with.

_Try not to wipe out entire species when you hunt this time, _Murtagh warned fondly before he descended the stairs which led to his floor of the turret.

_Well, I won't try _too _hard, _Thorn replied smugly.

Murtagh made his way through the secret passages of the castle – in no mood to chance across the gaping nobles and blushing girls. They all thought he had a _wonderful _life: he was the great warrior who fought against the rebels, even succeeding in killing the king of the dwarves. They were idiots, the lot of them. They paid no heed to Thorn; the whole reason Murtagh had fame in the first. They thought he led the life others only dreamed of. He was tired of ducking out of the numerous dinner invitations the power-hungry nobles pelted him with. He was sick of declining the betrothal offers the parents of desperate girls flung at him.

The people in the capital city disgusted him.

He ducked in and out of abandoned corridors until he reached one of the familiar hallways. He pushed aside what appeared to be no more than a stone wall and was greeted by streaming light. He stepped outside of the entry, and replaced the tapestry back over its clever illusion of seamless stone, and then continued on to Galbatorix's throne room.

Slight trepidation filled the pit of Murtagh's stomach as he recalled three nights previous, when he had first arrived back in Urû'baen, from his fight in Gil'ead.

_The cold moonlight streamed in through the glass windows, the only illumination in the room. Murtagh felt an unreasonable cold sweat break out and an uneasy fear creep into his veins._

_ A figure in the darkness shifted, removing its black leather gloves. Without another moment's time the room was alighted by a lantern on the king's desk, previously not there, where it gave off a silvery light. He saw Galbatorix sitting upon his extravagant throne, it was embedded with every gem a skilled miner of the dwarves could name, each hidden among the intricate twisting his throne took the shape of. Murtagh refused to look the King in the eyes, studying the floor instead._

_ "You practically failed." The voice was unforgiving, cold…emotionless._

_ "I didn't," Murtagh answered just as coolly, still refusing to look the King in the eyes._

_ "You did. The city of Gil'ead has been conquered by _elves_," the voice sneered, "but not only that, you practically lost against the ancient Rider and dragon – and likely would have lost your worthless life, if I hadn't…_interceded_." The voice reminded him, biting and full of menace._

_ Murtagh bit back a snort. Interceded? He had _possessed _Murtagh; there was no other word for it. Not only that, but he had possessed Thorn – he was not the monster that tore apart the gold dragon, but Shruikan – the King's black, twisted dragon._

_ "Am I to be punished for something which didn't even happen?"_

_ "You are to be punished for your weakness. Tell me, loyal servant of mine, son of Morzan…why did you hesitate? Are you not devoted to our vision? Why did you wish to spare this old traitor and his dragon?"_

_ Murtagh made sure there was no breaking into the fortifications of his mind as he chose his next words slowly, weighing each one as though he were choosing the weapon with which he would be killed._

_ "The race of dragons," Murtagh began, fighting to keep his voice steady, "is few. I did not wish…to destroy any more."_

_ "He wouldn't have helped you, Murtagh. _I _help you. I gave you power, I gave you Thorn. The Cripple and his dragon gave you nothing. They hid like cowards, and they died as such._

_ "They did not stand for a peaceful Alagaësia, the one which lets us be free. They are the real reason I must order you about with your name. When we win this war, you will be free. I would never willfully hurt you, Murtagh. You realize this, don't you?"_

_Murtagh felt his resolve yearning to waiver, to give in and believe the silken words the dark king spoke, but then he remembered…he remembered the torture Galbatorix had ordered. He remembered Thorn's misery that his time would be during the last of the dragons and he knew that Galbatorix was the reason._

"_But how have you rewarded my kindness?" The king asked, his voice dripping venom, "You couldn't even manage to bring me his eldunarí."_

_Murtagh bit back that it was Shruikan who had been the one to fail at finding the gold dragon's heart of hearts._

"_Thorn must be –" Murtagh began, only to feel a searing agony rip at his throat, refusing further speech. Galbatorix smiled in response._

"_You speak when spoken to, young rider. When will you learn?"_

_Murtagh gasped, his searing lungs begging for the cool air about him. He needed to tell Galbatorix that he hadn't managed to heal Thorn's tail; he had only managed in keeping the stump from closing up._

"_Now," Galbatorix leaned back further into his chair, leaning his elbows against the armrests and touching his fingertips together, "what were you saying, Morzanson?"_

_Murtagh grinded his teeth – he _hated _it when Galbatorix called him that._

"_Thorn is still missing three feet of his tail. I can't –"_

_A snarl tore from Galbatorix's mouth, breaking his previously calm demeanor._

"_Can you do anything right?" He hissed, plunging into a stream of unknown words of the ancient language. In a bright red flash Thorn appeared in the massive throne room, not even occupying a fourth of the space._

_Galbatorix didn't even seem winded by the summoning._

Murtagh! _Thorn cried out to his Rider, troubled by his unruly summoning, _what is happening? _It was hard for Murtagh to discern what Thorn was thinking over the pain that suddenly overwhelmed him: pain emanating from Thorn's stump of a tail._

_Again Galbatorix began chanting words over and over again in some dark, twisted version of the ancient language. His vivid black eyes rolled back into his head as his lips sped up, muttering faster and faster._

_Slowly Murtagh felt the pain edging away from Thorn until it was no more. Murtagh hadn't realized he had been squeezing his eyes shut until he opened them, to see Thorn's tail replaced, as if it never had been chewed off in the first._

_Galbatorix again was unaffected by the spell. There was, however, a great burst of purple light and a loud cracking, accompanied by an agonized roar that was by no means human._

_Murtagh flinched, knowing what it meant; Galbatorix had used up all of the eldunarí to heal Thorn's wounds. Murtagh found slight comfort in that now the unfortunate dragon's soul was free._

_The mad king sat back in his throne looking bemusedly towards Murtagh, as if he knew a great riddle that no one could possibly solve._

"_You do realize that without a tail you are utterly worthless to me? Without a tail, young dragon, you cannot hope to fly properly. Your balance on even the ground is affected. Without your tail you are useless to your Rider," Galbatorix laid his glittering ebony eyes back on Murtagh, "you are to take care of your dragon better than this. What would you have done if you hadn't managed to fly back to Urû'baen in time? Would you have wasted Thorn's life to save that of the dragon that would kill you both in an instant? Never hesitate again."_

_Murtagh nodded, surprised that there was no severe punishment forthcoming._

"_Now," Galbatorix's smile grew wider, "I expect to find you, Morzanson, here tomorrow at this exact time. I have someone _special_," His eyes seemed to glow as he said the word, "for you to duel tomorrow. The results of which will be most…intriguing…to me."_

_Murtagh felt confusion ebb into his bones, confusion and dread._

Someone special?

"_Now," The king smiled down at Murtagh, as though he were his own son, but when he spoke his voice had grown colder than ice, "leave."_

Murtagh had reached the entrance to Galbatorix's throne room, where all of his previous duels had taken place. He sighed heavily, knowing that while these exercises were necessary – if he were to ensure victory over Eragon in the future – but also dreading the agony he would feel from the his opponent; Galbatorix only called the duel off when the loser was within a fraction of his life, despite that it was clear Murtagh was the victor.

The doors before him seemed to open outward of their own accord, revealing a – strangely – cheerily lit room. Murtagh frowned, never had Galbatorix's throne room been so illuminated. The dark king liked to stick with a single, weak source of light.

"Don't just stand there gaping – come in!" Came Galbatorix's voice. Murtagh felt his blood run cold; the voice was just as cheery as the lights.

His feet moved forward towards the throne, unbidden, as if they fell for his joyful demeanor. Galbatorix was adopting the same voice he had when he was painting the future of Alagaësia to Murtagh, when he had first met the king whose castle he lived in.

_Thorn? _He called out mentally for his dragon, knowing before he did, that Thorn was far from Murtagh's mental reach.

Murtagh's tumbling thoughts only continued to tumult within the confines of his mind, as he saw another form beside the smiling king. Next to Galbatorix was a distinctly feminine figure clad in tight, black leather armor. Murtagh couldn't see her face, for it was covered by a matching leather helmet.

_So this is who I am to fight? _He thought to himself.

It would be easy if her slight figure was anything to judge by. Nevertheless he studied her from head to toe; for any weak spots in her armor. As he did so, he realized that it wasn't a helmet that covered her features, but a thick, black leather strip which wound about the upper half of her face, shielding her eyes from him. There were no slits for her to see out of, which only served to confirm his suspicions from the days previous; this was a very powerful pet of Galbatorix.

Her boots blended seamlessly with her black pants, which rigidly clung to her form. Her leggings reached all the way up to her waist which was for the majority, exposed. A dark purple vest-like jerkin began where the black leather had ended, where it adorned her upper half, but only her right and left sides. It appeared to be an over-coat of some sort, but it was entirely sleeveless and clutched to her form as tightly as her pants, and it left the middle of her abdomen completely bare. Its edges gracefully curved around her naked skin as though it were a wave. The purple leather continued curving up, until it reached the crease in her body where her arm met with her chest. There it thinned into a fine point, outlined all the while by a thin lining of silver. Her leather top wrapped about the entirety of her back, and stayed there in what Murtagh could only assume was an unnatural position for it didn't have the sleeves to keep it in the firm place it held about her. Underneath the revealing purple leather top, so as to cover her front, was a black strip of fabric which was likewise adorned with silver about its edges and it held a stark contrast against her pale midriff. The strip arced upwards on her right and left sides, twisting to the side opposite of the tips of its over-shirt, and reached a few inches past the upper layer. In the center of the black strip a silver ornament had been attached, where it lay flat against her skin, defying the natural order of things, and was studded with a dazzling white diamond.

Her shoulders were bare, and a few inches below them hung pauldrons of a matching dark purple. They seemed to flow about her arms as though they were water until they reached her elbows, where they curved around and doubled up to where they had begun. At the top of the pauldrons, holding the purple strips in place were several twisting silver bands that encased her arms and were studded with tiny purple diamonds. Underneath her intricate, silver-banded pauldrons, the tight black leather began again, leading all the way down to her hands where the leather stopped to reveal the pale skin of her fingers. As Murtagh studied her arms closer he noticed where the gloves began and the black leather that surrounded most of her upper arms stopped. At the fold of her elbows the gloves extended outwards one or two inches – so as to allow the free movement of her arms. Every inch of the purple leather was embellished around the edges with silver, extenuating the over-all uniqueness of her armor.

As she turned slightly he realized that the back of the purple armor top, which covered her sides did not stop at her waist. But rather split into three ovular curves, several inches apart from each other. The two on either of her sides reached below her knees by a few inches, while the one in the middle – visible from between her legs – reached just above her ankles. No silver embellished the three trailing ends.

Overall he assumed the armor was just for show – it hardly seemed as if it could stand up in a fight. But that didn't lessen the breathtaking appeal it held and he looked away as he realized who the strange girl was. She was his punishment, of that he was sure. A favorite of Galbatorix was never to be trifled with, let alone one Galbatorix was willing to keep an ever-present front for. The girl was dangerous, and would most likely beat him within an inch of his life.

"This is him?" Came her soft her voice, from beneath her strange headgear, she bore a bemused smile about her lips.

"Yes, dear; your final test," Galbatorix offered her a warming smile, which Murtagh had to admit, lightened up the dark king's features considerably. Galbatorix had changed his entire posture around her and seemed friendly…_inviting._ His jet-black hair was ordered around his pale face in a perfect manner, his coal black eyes seemed to have a warmth in their depths which Murtagh had never noticed before. And never leaving his handsome features was a slight smile…perhaps Murtagh had misjudged him?

"Shall we duel?" Breathed a calming voice. It took Murtagh several moments to realize it was coming from the girl in front of him.

She withdrew a sword which Murtagh quickly assessed was far too bulky to properly serve her. It seemed plain when compared to her elegant armor; a blatant insult. She bowed over slightly, to pick up a shield of matching plainness.

In response, Murtagh drew Zar'roc from its customary place at his waist, the warm flickering light dancing around the scarlet edges of Zar'roc's blade. He held a wary stance, as the two faced each other. He didn't attack first, just as Tornac had taught him: assess your partner, know their style. Never attack first, lest you find yourself facing an opponent far more formidable than you could have guessed.

They circled around each other for several more moments, but Murtagh soon realized he wouldn't be able to judge anything from her masked face. Without warning she lunged at him, a vicious cry tearing from her lips. Murtagh was caught by surprise and barely managed to raise Zar'roc up to defend him from her flurry of quick, sharp attacks. It took several moments for Murtagh to gain back his original ground and even the playing field. He could sense growing satisfaction from the King who sat in his chair, watching their every move. He was pleased that his experiment was doing so well, seeing as on a customary occasion, Murtagh would have already brought his opponent to his knees. But the girl was still holding her ground, never budging an inch in her fierce onslaught.

They whirled around the throne room as misjudged attacks glanced off the surrounding columns, giving a tune to the deadly song they danced to. She managed to nick Murtagh a few times, drawing blood as she feinted from one side to the next. Murtagh kept his face emotionless as he swung at her, hacking her clean across the waist. A sharp cry of pain escaped her lips as the red liquid seeped down her skin; staining everything it touched a gory hue. Satisfied he had dealt the deciding blow, Murtagh's attacks grew cockier as she swung slower and slower at him; weary from the loss of blood. But much to his growing frustration, he could gain no more ground on her. Although her armor was much lighter than his and offered considerably less protection, it also permitted her to whirl about him, almost a blur.

She stabbed at him in the back, causing Murtagh lancing pain, but the blade didn't penetrate his chain armor. He pivoted about just in time to see that in her annoyance, she was about to make a desperate move.

She had dropped her shield many blows before, as the weight had grown too much for her, and now bore the massive sword in both her trembling hands. She raised it above her head, and in one fluid movement she brought it down.

With a cry, Murtagh swung Zar'roc up, in perfect time to block her fatal blow. The force of Zar'roc coming at her with such strength sent the lesser blade flying from her hands. Murtagh flew about her in quick, derisive movements bringing her to the floor in a few moments. He pressed the scarlet blade against her throat, edging it right up to where her jaw began and whispered down to her,

"Dead."

Not waiting a moment longer, Murtagh reached his right hand over her kneeling form and tore the winding leather strip from her head.

Murtagh suppressed a startled gasp as her dark brown hair fell down about her, revealing her stunning face. Her eyes were downcast as he took in her features; never before had he seen anyone as beautiful, not even Arya the elf. She had a certain innocence about her, while simultaneously it seemed that she bore the troubles of an entire race. The tips of her mouth were downcast, forming a grimace of pain, and she flashed her intense eyes up at him.

Murtagh felt his eyes widen as her fierce eyes fixed furiously upon him; they were a vibrant amethyst and sent chills down his spine. He never let his grip on Zar'roc waver as she glared up at him.

"Enough!" Murtagh heard Galbatorix call from many feet behind them. Sheathing Zar'roc, he offered the strange girl his hand. She seemed to take no notice of him and stalked back to Galbatorix, not even pausing to pick up her blade.

Murtagh arrived by her side, waiting to hear Galbatorix's assessment of the impressive fight that had ensued.

"Ah, my child," The king reached out a comforting hand towards the girl who appeared to be Murtagh's lesser by two years, "you did splendidly."

"I failed," came her soft, confused voice. Her eyes darted dangerously towards Murtagh again, as if seeing him for the first time. A small gasp escaped her now-parted lips, and her eyes fixed at his now-sheathed blade. They then found their way back up to his own grey eyes, and confusion flitted across her face before she turned back to face Galbatorix.

The king sighed, resting his head in his hands, as though he were tired. Murtagh once again felt the need to study the girl before him – why was she so important? His froze as he took in the partially pointed ears. His eyes shot down to her palms, but they were covered by her black gloves.

As if in question to his silent, searching gaze, she removed the article in question and tossed them on the table before her. Murtagh breathed a sigh of relief as he took in her hands; no gedwëy ignasia burned into either of her palms. She raised her right hand to her waist before whispering,

"Waíse heill!" Her waist knitted back together and then she whispered something lower, inaudible and the scarlet blood vanished from her skin.

Murtagh's mind was a jumble of mixed thoughts as he stared shamelessly at her. _How has she come to Urû'baen, how can she somewhat bear the ears of an elf if isn't a Rider? _Murtagh wished Thorn were there so he could run his suspicions by his bonded partner, and perhaps receive some solutions.

_At least she's not an elf. _Murtagh hated the elves and their endless arrogance. He hated how they could arrange their bodies to whatever pleased them most_. If you weren't born with your beauty, then you don't deserve it. _The elves repulsed him more than that, for they hid themselves in seclusion, hiding from Galbatorix all these years, offering little to no help to the Varden.

_Until now, _he thought bitterly. If the damned _fair folk _had bothered to offer their assistance in the battle of Farthen Dûr then he might never have been captured by the Twins. But then Thorn never would have hatched for him…

"Wait," Galbatorix's head snapped up and he gave the girl an assessing gaze, "fetch your sword – let me see you practice with it."

The girl nodded once and then rushed off to fulfill his orders. She returned a few seconds later with her sword and shield, turning to face Galbatorix.

"Without the shield," the king commented and Murtagh could sense him struggling to hide his impatience.

She obediently placed the shield on the floor, gripping the hand-and-a-half sword with both of hers. Bowing her head slightly, she began a series of complex forms as she wove between imaginary foes, slashing mercilessly at them. To an ignorant bystander she appeared to be a master of the blade in her hands. But Murtagh's practiced eyes picked up several flaws in her method. The blade didn't hug her every movement, it didn't seem an extension of her arm; the sword wasn't meant for her. Every time she thrust her arm out, the blade would tilt at a slightly awkward angle, but it was just enough to alert Murtagh it wasn't being held by the fingers of a master. Her movements seemed exaggerated to him, almost as if she were preparing for a force that the sword couldn't deliver. But she wasn't oblivious to the trouble the weapon gave her, and he could sense her increasing frustration.

She finished the last of her forms with a flourish as she clearly beheaded the last of the imaginary foes before her.

"Well," Galbatorix turned to face Murtagh, "what do you think?"

Murtagh took a deep breath, "The blade doesn't fit her."

"Clearly. What would you, apprentice of the late Tornac, suggest?"

Murtagh gave the girl an appraising look, studying her build: where her muscles were the thickest, and where they curved. He had of course been studying her during the entire performance and brought back to present her every move. Without much hesitation he replied,

"Daggers."

Galbatorix offered no reply, merely reaching within the depths of his desk to withdraw two ornate daggers. He threw them at her without a word of warning. Much to Murtagh's surprise she purled about and grabbed the flying weapons in her hands with practiced ease. She smiled faintly at her success and initiated her fighting stance without further prompting.

She nodded for Murtagh to draw Zar'roc from its sheath and so begin their second duel.

This duel took considerably longer than the first. Murtagh noticed with approval how her fighting technique had improved, quicker and more accurate, due to the new weapons she bore. She whirled about him, jabbing left and right leaving Murtagh somewhat breathless from the constant offensive she kept up. She thrust her daggers up towards his chest and down towards his legs, but he parried them before they could strike true, and swept Zar'roc left and right, hoping to catch her exposed waist again.

She nicked his armor several times and left him with a collection of deep gashes on his bare face, her daggers now glistened hungrily with his blood. He swung at her, but she stepped aside with barely any effort. Her arrogance was nearly tangible as she jerked her wrists about Murtagh with ease, slicing whatever they came into contact with.

Murtagh decided to keep up the defensive, all the while studying her for a weakness he could exploit, even as he deflected her attacks. As she was pulling one of her fancier maneuvers, Murtagh saw the opening he needed. Stabbing Zar'roc towards her prone back, she spun about, sensing his intentions. But she had been caught off guard and Murtagh swiftly jabbed out with Zar'roc, flicking the dagger from her left hand, where it clattered noisily to the floor. While she recovered from the initial shock of losing her weapon, he knocked the other dagger from her right. He once more his sword up, pressing it to her neck,

"Dead."

"So close," Galbatorix encouraged, his black eyes alight with some passion Murtagh could not name, "But no. The correct weapon was not chosen for you."

Murtagh suppressed a flare of anger at Galbatorix's words, healing the numerous cuts and gashes she had given him. He felt grim satisfaction when he heard her do the same.

"I wonder..." The king pondered aloud, letting a light curiosity seep into his mellifluous tone.

Murtagh turned about to see the king withdraw a scimitar with an overall length an inch or two past three feet. Its blade was covered by a leather sheath, which was ornamented on both ends with intricate designs of silver. Tiny black diamonds were hidden among the embellishment. The hilt attached at the end of the blade blended flawlessly with the rest of the scimitar, bearing nothing on either of its sides as it curved in unison with the overall shape of the blade. Silver ivy seemed to spring from nowhere and wrap around the hilt, embellishing it, and a few inches of the upper part of the blade, with its beauty. In the middle of the sprawling ivory, the hilt was studded with a huge diamond which encased itself with the tiny, seemingly alive silver plant.

Galbatorix walked over to the stunned girl, holding the priceless scimitar out to her.

"I present you –"

"Laeranír," She breathed, a sense of familiarity crossing her face. She ignored Galbatorix's confirmation as she reached her hand out to pull it from its sheath. As she withdrew Laeranír, complete reverence crossed over her face. Her delicate fingers fit perfectly into the handle, and her equally stunning eyes moved up Laeranír's length as she examined it further. Its blade curved gracefully, engraved with the light, spidery writing of a powerful, long-forgotten language. Upon further inspection, Murtagh realized the letters were filled with white diamonds, which had been melted and poured into the blade so it fit into the letters with the subtle ease of perfection.

"He's perfect," She breathed.

"Try it out then," Galbatorix suggested, with a dark glint in his eyes.

She turned about to face Murtagh with her newly acquired blade, and he felt a brief tremor of fear run through him. That sword could cut him to shreds, and magic wasn't allowed during Galbatorix's duels – unless of course he was dueling a magician.

The two reeled about, close enough to feel the breath of their opponent on their skin, and then so far from each other that their blades barely reached the target; the dance had resumed. She faded from one stance to another, with definite grace. Murtagh matched every one of her strikes with the poise one could only have achieved with years of practice.

As the seconds lengthened to minutes and neither had landed a decent hit, Murtagh was surprised that she didn't seem to grow as agitated as she had the times before; she relished every twirl of the blade as it responded instantaneously to her every thought. It was a whirlwind in her hands as she spun it about in a three-sixty. They had already sustained several minor injuries from each other and as the battle wore on, the pair grew desperate to land the deciding blow. Several minutes later found Murtagh with a deep gash in his side – this blade did not seem adverse to his chain armor and eagerly bit deep into his flesh until it hit bone. Blood was pouring from his wound and Murtagh felt the rage of battle grip him, turning his vision red. He no longer saw her as a girl, but as an opponent; he wouldn't be holding back anymore. She was a threat which he would stop at no ends until he had eliminated. He built up to his move with a series of complex blows, and Zar'roc keenly licked at her flesh. After landing a decidedly painful gash along her cheek, he swung Zar'roc to the side and once more sent her blade flying to the ground.

As he lunged out to stab her, she did something he had never seen before. She turned away, so her back was facing him and in a swift movement she was in the air, flying high above his head. She landed behind him, facing the same direction she had before she jumped, and quickly she grabbed her scimitar from where it had landed. Murtagh whirled about to find her crouched on all fours, blade retrieved.

He cursed internally and fought her with ever increasing fury, landing several critical hits. Once more they found each other responding to the other's every thought, they moved as though they were one; in a perfect action reaction scenario. He slashed her through the back of her armor, and felt the satisfaction of Misery ripping through her armor and into her flesh. As they pirouetted about each other, Murtagh sliced her again, this time his blade landed in her side.

Much to his disappointment, she didn't seem to feel the blows; they weren't deep enough to trigger pain in the heat of battle. Her blade shimmered in the light, a blur as she danced around him, jabbing and being deflected again and again. As they whirled closer to each other again, Murtagh swung Zar'roc at anything he could – which happened to be her face. The blade cut into the right side of her face, running several inches down into her neck until it reached the torn flesh of her shoulder, the cut ran deep.

Without hesitation Murtagh held Zar'roc to her heart, panting heavily.

"Dead," he repeated again.

The girl made no response to the proximity of his deadly scarlet blade, and tore a shredded glove from her hand. She made to heal the wound on her neck, but convulsed slightly and ended up using it to shield her mouth as she coughed fiercely into it. When she removed it from her bloody lips Murtagh saw her palm was covered in the dripping red substance.

Kneeling next to her, Murtagh pressed his hand against her bloodied neck, feeling the warm sticky substance clinging to his hand. Whispering the healing words, he felt the would-be-fatal gash disappear from her neck, and the pulsing flow of blood ended. He removed his bloodied palm, wiping it on his armor.

"Thank you," She managed, not looking him in the eyes – to which he was grateful. She went about healing her own wounds as Murtagh turned to face the king, whose presence he had practically forgotten.

Galbatorix didn't say a word, but picked up two daggers which had gone unnoticed, from his desk. He walked over to the kneeling, bloodied girl and held them out to her.

"Perhaps you would have fared better with Laeranír's brothers, Nensaie-Thandurl and Esgalval?"

Murtagh noticed the definite resemblance between the breathtaking scimitar and its two curved dagger brethren. They had the same silver filigreed handles and matching white diamond inlaid hilts.

"Only if he has daggers, will I duel him with them," She replied swiftly, "I'll only find solace in my victory if it is won fairly."

Murtagh shrugged down at her, which brought fierce pain to run up his side as he realized he hadn't remembered to heal his own wounds.

He whispered the words in the ancient language, sewing the torn flesh back together, and repairing the cracked bones.

"I have no daggers, nor will I fight with any," Murtagh finally answered, watching her as she attached the daggers to a belt which had previously gone unnoticed. He felt an insatiable curiosity growing within him as he studied her. Who was she? How had she chanced into Galbatorix's clutches – and more importantly, why did he keep up a flawless façade of humanity for her?

"Very well," Galbatorix replied, "go again."

Although it took longer this time, Murtagh continued with his streak, and inevitably he bested the girl, bringing her once more to her knees. This time, however, she managed to keep a hold onto her weapon.

"Again," Galbatorix ordered.

Twice more the two battled, with the same outcome every time; Murtagh was clearly the superior. Murtagh was sure that this was Galbatorix's punishment for the girl – he would never lay a finger on her, but she would be repeatedly cut up by Murtagh's vicious sword. This way, Galbatorix remained innocent and above reproach.

If the girl had felt any kindness towards Murtagh from before, when he healed her, it was gone now. She regarded him with cold indifference as she once more tended to the severe wounds in her leg; it ran from her waist to right above her knee. She hadn't even managed a proper blow in by the time he defeated her.

Murtagh could sense frustration in the room emanating from more than her; Galbatorix had hoped with the punishments he was assigning her, that she would have grown to desperation, and bested him Murtagh. The king planned his actions an age before he acted on them; he didn't just _happen _to have priceless weapons which were designed to her perfectly. It was as much an act of gaining her unwavering loyalty, as a test he had been sure she would pass. Murtagh felt a sense of pride that he had defeated the king's new prized playing piece.

"You will need to attend less time to your studies, and more to your swordsmanship."

She nodded again, favoring Murtagh with an icy glare.

"You will do so with him," Galbatorix ordered, gaining a note of formality which Murtagh hadn't heard him use the entire time, "he far exceeds the skill of any of your teachers."

Murtagh could sense her reluctance, but she didn't act upon it. Galbatorix however, did.

His expression appeared to soften towards the girl, "I would train you myself, but I have other matters to attend to. You will present to me once a week and until you have bested him at least once, you will practice at least three hours every day."

This time, Murtagh stiffened along with the girl; that regimen was brutal.

"If only you could have trained with Tornac," The king was using his honeyed-voice once more, "sadly he died but a few years back. He was my best trainer."

Murtagh felt his throat tighten as Galbatorix intentionally mentioned his old mentor for the second time. It had been Murtagh's fault Tornac, had died – they were fleeing Urû'baen together, and he gave his life to let Murtagh escape Galbatorix. In honor of his teacher Murtagh had named the horse he escaped on Tornac.

Galbatorix grinned cruelly at Murtagh while the girl's gaze was elsewhere.

"I do not believe you two have been formally introduced," Galbatorix smiled warmly at the girl, and motioned towards Murtagh,

"Caellyn, this is Murtagh: son of the best, most loyal of my vassals, _Morzan_."

Murtagh felt undeniable rage reach up to his face and bit back several furious remarks which begged to be released by his tongue. He under no uncertain terms had chosen his father, he was forever grateful when he heard that his father had been killed by the infamous Brom. He hated how Galbatorix threw Morzan's name about, as if Murtagh were to somehow become his father.

_Never, _Murtagh said fiercely to himself, _I will never become that monster._

But as he looked back to the mysterious girl now revealed to be Caellyn, he didn't see the horror he expected to in her violet eyes, he saw…_respect._

"To have such a father is quite an honor. What I would have done for a father who has done so much for our cause!" Her bitter demeanor towards Murtagh from before seemed to have melted away at learning his parentage; she smiled up at Murtagh in what would have been an innocent expression, if not for the reasoning.

Murtagh leaned closer to her, practically spitting venom,

"Gladly. You can bear that name. I am of no relation to that monster."

He didn't look behind at her, and didn't see her stunned expression as he tore from the room.

**A/N: That chapter was **_**awesome **_**for me to write! I hope you all enjoyed it and feel compelled to press that little button that says "review" ;)**


	4. C3 Some Dreaming State

**A/N: Thanks guys for the reviews!**

**Thanks Mararanali, I'm glad you stuck through it:)**

**To Separate Entity: yeah it was hard for Thorn to watch while Shruikan possessed him and forced him to tear Glaedr to bits. And yeah, it was Durza who captured Caellyn:) (and in case anyone was wondering "the second child" he was referring to was actually Murtagh, but Caellyn never actually met him until now). Anyway as you found out in the previous chapter, she isn't an elf; she's quite frustrating to Murtagh because he isn't going to get answers about her any time soon. She's something very special, but you'll find that out in later chapters. And I absolutely loved writing the last chapter 'Convergence'! The battles between them were epic when I envisioned them; those two knocked the crap out of each other.**

**To Vassili: Thanks! And no, I can't reveal anything towards the plot but if you stick with it you'll find out(: and ikr! Romeo and Juliet was sort of disappointing for the "greatest love story of all time". **

**Remember as always, I'll answer any questions you have (unless they're spoiler-questions). Enjoy chapter three here, it gave me a LOT of trouble when I tried to pry it from the inner workings of my brain (:**

Chapter Three: Some Dreaming State

"Men are not prisoners of Fate, but only prisoners of their own minds."

– Franklin Roosevelt

Sunlight streamed in from the open windows, splaying unique patterns onto the floor of Caellyn's room. From where she stood on the balcony, glancing up at the skies above, it seemed as though the weather would persist in its sunny performance for a few days yet. Among many other things, the weather seemed to serve only to confuse her. Here it was, approaching winter, and yet the sun seemed relentless to share its heat with the inhabitants of her breath-taking new world, Alagaësia.

Birds chased each other joyfully through the liquid sky, oblivious to the world around them. They chirped noisily from one to the other, chattering incessantly. She smiled amusedly up at them; they were the reason she had awoke at such an early hour. Fresh dew from the morning rains decorated the grass so many feet below her, as well as railing of her balcony and she absentmindedly brushed it away.

Her mind was whirling and she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on what the king had told her the night previous – after her strange dueling partner, Murtagh, had fled the room. Galbatorix had told her that he had finally chanced upon the name her birth parents had given her.

"Mariel," She murmured in tentatively, unsure of how she felt about it. All her life she had grown up with the name given her at the orphanage: Caellyn.

A part of her wanted to cling to the name and thereby keep a fragment of the ever-fading identity she had on Earth. For the most part however, she reveled in the new name, and was content. Wasn't it fitting that she bear her proper name, the one given to her by her parents, when she had been born in Alagaësia?

"Mariel Alanei Elekthrön," She whispered to herself.

_My full name_.

It resurfaced that familiar sense of nostalgia which hid within her and she felt as if she knew it all along. It was the same reminiscence that had brought Laeranír's name to her lips.

Everything around her seemed to trigger small memories and caused strange emotions to boil underneath her skin. She wished more than ever that she could learn the identity of her parents, or that someone could reveal to her the identity of the strange man who whispered in her mind, giving her warnings which rarely heeded.

She was sure this was the same man the mysterious light had shone her – the one that had taken her to Alagaësia three years previous. During all of her life, she had heard that protecting voice in the back of her head, but she never truly listened long enough to hear it – to realize it was not her own – until she had arrived in the small clearing of the unnatural woods.

The voice whispered in her mind, presenting her with riddles and giving her advice which made no clear sense. Coupled with the voice she felt even stranger emotions roil within her, emotions that seemed to concur to everything the voice murmured. These strange emotions had surfaced again when she battled the son of Morzan. She felt an overwhelming passion which made her _long _to fight him; to kill him. This was the only time her emotions and her voice didn't agree; her voice told her to run from him. To run and not look back.

Her duel from the night previous was looming over her; some daunting mystery, the likes of which she hadn't faced since her arrival to this unusual, yet familiar world. She had wished to inquire the king as to who this Murtagh truly was, but the voice in her head held her back and told her to keep her thoughts to herself, almost as if it didn't trust the king.

This too made no sense to her; Galbatorix had been nothing but kind to her since she arrived at his castle in Urû'baen. He personally reprimanded the shade, Durza, when he learned of his unnecessary treatment of her, apologizing profusely all the while. From that day onward she had been taken under the king's wing and kept for the most part, in seclusion. This separation from most other beings made her look forward to her somewhat frequent visits with the king, and even the duels he ordered to hone her skills with.

Galbatorix had even taken it upon himself to remove the spell which had been placed on her in anticipation of her arrival on Earth. This was how she had regained the natural some-what pointed tips to her ears. He had told her that although the spell had managed to round her ears and make her features appear more human, they hadn't managed to hide the color of her eyes. Mariel was overly grateful that the king had removed the spell, and so by returned her to the way she would have appeared if she had never been taken from her rightful planet of Alagaësia.

By his graciousness, she gained answers to the myriad of unanswered questions. He had explained to her that she had been sent to Earth for her own protection, but also that the fear was quite ungrounded. But not even Galbatorix appeared to know about the strange power she felt surging within her, growing stronger and stronger, ever since she had stepped foot that fateful day, into the lands of Alagaësia, and she hadn't dared mention the voice in her thoughts, for fear he would believe her to be insane.

But Galbatorix had explained to her that she was born in this world, and sent to Earth for her own protection. He spoke of the many years he had poured into finding a way to retrieve her, and bring her back to her rightful home. Deep inside, she knew that Galbatorix had knowledge of her father. She desperately wished to ask him as to whom he might be, but simultaneously she trusted that there had to be a reason Galbatorix withheld it from her.

She exhaled heavily. Galbatorix always did what was best for her. He had assigned her the best tutors in the kingdom, and it was they who had taught her daily. Her studies ranged from the vast vocabulary and proper understanding of the ancient language, to practicing with every weapon her hands could wield. Whether it was a bow, daggers, mace, sword, polearm, or even the clumsy demeanor of a battle axe, she seemed to be quite capable with it.

But her grace with various weapons was soon overshadowed whilst being compared to her unquestioning prowess when she spoke even a single word in the ancient language. Her teachers had told her that the power needed to control the ancient language would take years to master, but it came to Mariel within a few weeks. Although admittedly, she had stumbled about when her training first began, she soon outshined even her teachers, and was then sent to studying precious books from the king's own personal library. In each book hundreds of true names resided, along with ways to better go about casting a spell, and how one could conserve as much energy as possible.

From these tomes she learned how to draw on energy from the beings around her to supply the needed power for spells – which was a well guarded secret, according to Galbatorix. However, the king also told her never to draw upon another magician's energy during the duels he arranged daily for her. He told her to only use this method when she practiced on her own time, or if she were to fight an enemy; for if this powerful secret was revealed to a lowly magician, there would be no end of trouble.

The girl sighed wistfully, longing for the day when she would be allowed out of her seclusion – even if it was to fight against the Varden for the innocent lives they had stolen from the citizens of the Empire.

She just couldn't understand why the rebels would want to undermine his authority. He was such a kind, benevolent ruler and was quite reluctant to send troops against what were previously his vassals. Galbatorix had told her how he believed that they were merely misguided by a corrupt leader. He confided in her how he was positive that were informed of the truth, they would swiftly return to the Empire and repent of their ignorant ways. He said that if this were to happen, he didn't know if he would be able to find it within himself to punish them.

Mariel glanced back up towards the heavens and wished that it could all be so easy. Her eyes caught a massive disturbance in the cerulean skies above, which sent the birds flying in panicked disarray to the sanctuary within the confines of the neighboring trees.

Squinting her dark purple eyes, the girl saw a huge scarlet beast making its way towards the castle. She felt a tremor of awe while she took in the magnificent red dragon and his nameless rider. From what she had learned of the few times Galbatorix spoke of him, was that red rider was quite unpredictable and interpreted his orders as he saw fit. But despite that warning from the king, she still wished to meet the rider – or, more precisely, his dragon.

It was times such as this that made her resent the alienation Galbatorix surrounded about her, even though she knew he only did it for her protection. All of the nobles in Urû'baen knew and had met the rider and his dragon. Yet she was obligated to stay in seclusion from all but her teachers, who had sworn oaths in the ancient language never to mention their pupil. But not even they knew that she came from an entirely different planet than their own; that was a secret only Galbatorix and the late Durza were privy to.

The ruby dragon and his rider had long vanished into some mysterious part of Castle Ilirea by the time she turned from her balcony, deciding to walk back into the confines of her room.

Rapidly dressing into her armor of the night before, she vaguely wondered what was wrong with her dueling partner. How could he be so ashamed of such proud a descent as to take enough offense from her words to run from the room? She also wondered as to why whenever she looked into his face she had the overwhelming urge to kill him. She had never heeded the voice in her head before, and rarely followed the clamor of emotions that were forced upon her.

_Well now he's my teacher, _she thought bitterly to herself and for once wished that she could heed the strange warnings given her, and never go near the bitter man again.

It took her several more minutes to don her armor in full, and she was grateful that she had remembered to mend it with magic the previous night. Walking towards a mirror, Mariel held her hair up securely with one hand, and picked up the black leather strip she had left on a nearby table, fingering it with her free hand.

At first she had been quizzical when Galbatorix had ordered her to wear the strange headgear at all times, even during her studies. But she quickly adjusted to seeing nothing but darkness for the majority of the daylight hours. It was necessary to make sure word of her existence never got out. For not only did it keep a face from her name – if ever her tutors were to be forced to relinquish her identity – but it also heightened her other senses. Even when she no longer wore the piece she found that she was more aware of her surroundings.

Looking back at her reflection in the mirror, she felt the familiar longing to go out just this once, as herself. She missed seeing the expressions on the faces of those around her; she missed seeing the color and detail of any given object that might surround her. A part of her hated being blind to the world, but the other part, the majority, told her to trust in Galbatorix's judgment.

Swallowing her indecision, she placed the first end of the black strip against the nape of her neck, and began to wind it around. She rolled it about to the front of her face, diagonally weaving across the left side until it covered one entire half of her face. Continuing to the next side, she watched as the black leather covered up the rest of her identity, hiding her from the world.

As her eyes attuned to the customary black, she felt the familiar deep thrum of power surging within her. It was always inside her, but was much subtler when she had her own sight. This was the same power that kept her from bumping into things while she was deprived of her vision – it was some sort of instinct on which she relied thoroughly. She could sense everything about her with uncanny accuracy, without ever having to leave the confines of her mind. But no, it wasn't the same. It couldn't compare to seeing things through her eyes; it could only sense, not see. If she wanted to know the emotions of those about her, then she would be forced to leave her mind and ask them so personally; rather than being able to just look at their face. She didn't know the definite shapes of any objects, and she didn't even know the faces of her teachers.

She tentatively placed her fingers on the top of her head and felt around, confirming that the headgear was securely fastened and in no danger of slipping.

Turning away from the mirror, she headed towards the door. She swiftly walked through it, not hesitating to doubt the power which thrummed within her; it was never wrong.

Making sure no one was near her, she pushed aside a tapestry from the wall and stepped into the secret halls of the castle. She walked speedily through the seemingly abandoned passageways, only stopping when she sensed she had arrived at the correct exit. Stepping from the hidden corridors, Mariel observed that she had arrived in one of the many training rooms specifically reserved for Galbatorix, which no one dared to enter. But she wasn't alone.

"I realize that it may take longer for you, what with not being able to see, but I've been waiting for an hour."

"What makes you believe I cannot see?" She answered him coldly, her voice never reaching above a whisper.

The owner of the voice was leaning against the wall across from her, his arms crossed.

"So your own handicap senses are what led you to be an hour late? Here I was attempting to give you the benefit," Even though she couldn't see his face, she could sense it was plastered into a self-satisfied smirk, "of the doubt."

Mariel didn't see the sense in egging him on, and held her silence.

"Are you mute now as well?"

She ground her teeth together, trying to ignore his jibes. Then,

"You never answered me. What makes you believe I carry about a lack of sight?" Her voice was scathing, every last ounce.

"That thing on your head, for one."

She felt the same anger of the night previous flare up, causing her to withdraw Laeranír from its sheath, "Let us test your theory."

"Beating you back in the throne room was simple enough for me – and you had proper vision for the most part. This won't be overly challenging to duplicate."

"We'll see," she replied scathingly. Murtagh – for she was sure now as to his identity – shrugged and drew his blade, pushing off from the wall.

Tilting the blade towards him, she aimed it directly at his chest, in no mood to bandy about. The sooner she defeated him, the sooner she would complete her training and move on to whatever the use was that Galbatorix had set aside for her.

"Take it off, _Caellyn,_" He commanded.

She hated the way her previous name sounded when he said it, and she ground her teeth furiously together, suppressing the urge to stab him, before answering.

"No."

She didn't know why she refused him, since not only had he seen her face and she additionally hated wearing it, but she didn't want him to get the impression that he could order her about and expect her to comply.

"Very well, then."

Without another word he lunged at her with his merciless blade and she whipped up her own defense as she, almost simultaneously, heard the clattering noise of the two clashing blades reverberate about them.

Adrenaline was coursing through her as they twisted about each other, stabbing and slashing wherever the other let their guard down. Her three years of blinded sword practice kicked in the moment their blades had collided. She surrendered her body to the strange instinct within, letting it move her as it pleased.

Soon she heard his labored breathing as her natural impulse conflicted with his practiced hand. She barely felt the stinging pain from the various cuts he dealt her, and she circled around him, laying her strategy about with the thrashing of her blade. She could practically taste her victory as she stabbed her blade towards him in the final maneuver; only to have it torn from her. For once again she felt the regrettably recognizable vibration of pain emanating from her wrist as the blade was knocked, quite forcibly, from her hands.

Before she could do anything to stop Murtagh, his fingers slipped underneath her mask and ripped it off. He threw it to the side meaningfully as she felt her hair fall about to her shoulders.

"I told you to take it off, _Caellyn._"

The way he threw about her name – and her incorrect one at that – fed the building fury which roared inside her.

"It's Mariel," She spat ferociously at him, glaring into his indifferent face. Once again, the instant her eyes took in his face, she felt both the urge to grab the daggers at her waist, plunging them deep into his cold heart, but also the urge to tear from the room, never looking back.

_Get away from him, _the assuredly masculine voice whispered to her. She felt her fingers twitch towards her daggers.

"No," she growled furiously to herself, and grabbed her traitorous hand with the other. Mariel silently fumed up at him, incensed that she had lost once again. Never before had she faced such defeat, again and again; it made her undeniably infuriated.

He looked apathetically down at her, not deeming her different name of any importance, "And when I spend my designated three hours of _hell _with you, I expect you to not show up wearing it either."

"I am never to –" She began, before he rudely cut through her quickly raising voice with his own.

"I don't care what Galbatorix has or hasn't ordered you to do. When you come here you're being trained by _me_. Not by him. You are to do as I tell you, and I order you not to wear that when you train with me."

"And why is that?" She spat out, venom dripping from her every word.

"Because you can't learn a thing if you can't see," He spoke to her with such arrogance – as though she was the most ignorant person on the planet, "How exactly, do you plan to master the forms I show you, if you can't see them? If Galbatorix were to put you out on a battlefield right now you would die in seconds_. _I don't care what you are; whether it's some experiment, breed, abomination… if you can't see, you will die."

His words struck deeply at her, and she bit back a frustrated scream. It was true, she wasn't entirely sure as to what she was but…but did that really make her an abomination?

"I have bested plenty of men, all the while being _blind_." Mariel disguised the hurt in her voice with a threatening tone.

"Yet you can't best me," Through his icy voice she could detect a degree of conceit, "Why is that?" Despite trying to remain calm, she felt another bout of anger flash onto her face as she glared up at his emotionless one.

"You have years of practice behind you. I've only got three," She hissed up at him heatedly. Mariel remembered after the words already had escaped that she wasn't to reveal anything about herself to anyone – least of all this conceited bastard. He just made her _so mad._

"Is that so?" Although he had noticed her mistake, she could tell by his face that once again, the information was little to him, "Well then, this person with _years of experience _behind him orders you not to wear that damned blindfold."

"How do you expect me to fight in battle properly when you won't permit me to train wearing it?" She questioned him scathingly.

"Easy: don't fight. You're hardly any good at it anyhow."

Mariel was left speechless as he turned away from her, calling back,

"Now get up, will you? We aren't even close to being done."

With a wrath in her she had never seen the likes of before; Mariel grabbed her fallen sword from the cold stone floor. Without a single rational thought towards what she was doing, she charged towards Murtagh's turned form – desperate to gain any edge over him that she could. She craved to see his blank face graced with any sort of emotion, even if it was pain.

Sensing her rapidly approaching presence, Murtagh turned to face her, but he was an instant too late. Surprise flickered across his countenance, widening his grey eyes as he saw her scimitar plunge deep into his flesh. Laeranír tore fiercely through his leather pants, jutting out to the other side of his left leg, and the being within Mariel hummed with satisfaction.

Murtagh gasped involuntarily from the pain of the blow, as blood poured from his skewered leg. Leaning against the wall for support, he grasped the handle of the scimitar which was deeply embedded within his flesh. He gripped it so fiercely in his two hands that his fingers turned white. He groaned in agony as he slowly managed to pull the blade from the gushing hole that was gouged into his upper leg.

Mariel took a step away from him, horrified at what she had done in her rage.

A vicious, almost unearthly scream rent the stilled air about them, and Murtagh cursed to himself at the noise.

"Shut up!" He muttered irritably, louder than what Mariel assumed he had intended. She narrowed her eyes as she gazed up at him – this time it was she who was curious for answers about the mysterious person in front of her.

"Waíse heill," Murtagh murmured, his features smoothing out as the pain receded from his leg. Laeranír clattered noisily to the floor, slipping from his fingers.

He closed his furious eyes tightly, before snapping them open to fix securely on the stunned girl before him.

"What _the hell _was that?" He demanded of her.

Mariel didn't immediately answer him, for her mind was reeling within itself: the voice was reprimanding her, while the instinct defended her actions, and all the while her own mind was wondering why Murtagh had just ordered the screeching beast to be silent. By the time she had quieted both of the alien beings within her, she had forgotten what he had asked her – she had even forgotten where she was.

"What did you say?" She asked, her voice devoid of the customary anger he brought out in her.

For the briefest instant she saw confusion flicker across his enraged features, and it was a while before he regained the use of his voice.

"You stabbed me in the leg." His anger had returned, now even colder than ever, and the curiosity had drained from his face.

Mariel shrugged innocently up at him, the memory of her recent actions returning to her, "I figured that an expert such as yourself would have seen that coming before my _addled brain _even managed to think of it."

"Please accept my apologies – I had assumed I would be training someone with half a whit of common sense. But no," He sighed with mock regret, "I was assigned you; Galbatorix's _personal _lunatic."

"I'm not crazy!" She seethed; knowing even as she did that it wasn't the most convincing defense.

Murtagh raised his eyebrows questioningly, motioning from the hole left in his leather pants over towards where the blade had fallen once being extracted from his leg.

She favored him with a withering glare, and seeing as he would get no vocal response, Murtagh drew his blade from its sheath at his waist. Mariel's insides lurched as once again the beings inside her squirmed upon viewing his scarlet blade.

_Zar'roc, _the voice in her mind supplied menacingly. In an instant images were flashing before her eyes. There was a man, identical to Murtagh, who slashed about with the crimson blade, killing haphazardly, mercilessly, about him. She saw riders and dragons alike, fall to the blade that was in his hands, and a cold clamor swept through her. The bloody massacre faded from her burning eyes and she looked at Murtagh with renewed horror.

She took an involuntary step back from him, and the voice within her mind spoke directly through her lips.

"You bear Misery with you."

The intimidating voice which came from her mouth sent chills down Mariel's spine and she clamped a hand over her mouth, hoping to subdue it should it open again of its own accord. Her mind was utter chaos as she was forced to wonder once more who the voice was, and why it hadn't triggered this before when she first saw Murtagh's treacherous blade.

When her eyes managed to focus on what she was seeing, she saw that Murtagh's eyes mirrored the same horror she felt on her own face. But then he replaced his features with their customary cold mask, as he realized the terror so abundant on her face was directed towards him. Mariel felt a growing unease as she realized that Murtagh had recognized that the voice was not her own.

"Get your sword," He recovered, his voice gaining its authoritative edge once more.

The angry murmuring in her head escalated to a scream: _don't turn your back on him!_ Then it showed her once more a vision of the man who she assumed was Murtagh. But this time the setting was different, he was in a village, slaughtering anyone, anything in his path – children included.

Her heart was pounding as the vision faded from her view, and she spent several lengthy seconds forcing herself to believe that it wasn't real, that she was paranoid. That the _voice _was paranoid: Galbatorix would never allow one of his servants to commit such an atrocity in his name.

_He won't try anything, _she assured the voice, her own soothing; _he still has to answer to the king. _

She then proceeded to walk over to where her dripping blade had been thrown. She felt revulsion grab at her when she took in the sight of her gory weapon, which was amassed in a puddle of Murtagh's blood. She knew she shouldn't have fallen for his previous baiting, but it gave her a sickening sense of satisfaction to know that he wasn't infallible; she had managed to catch him off guard.

Hastily casting a spell, the blood vanished from the both the floor and blade, and then she knelt down to retrieve it. Mariel turned warily about to face Murtagh once she had snatched up her sword. But she could tell from his eyes that he wasn't even there, for they had acquired a glazed appearance, and he seemed to be having some sort of internal struggle with himself.

_And he calls _me _crazy_, her mind supplied her – for once it wasn't the warning voice of the strange man.

She took Murtagh's mental absence as time to calm her nerves and think through her actions logically. She soon arrived at the conclusion that it wasn't at all her fault for impaling his leg. What wasn't the responsibility of her unruly instincts, belonged to Murtagh, for he most certainly had goaded her, a fact which only served to inflame her emotions. She resented him, blaming him entirely for her lack of control. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't control the wild force raging within her, and he should have known better than to have provoked an _abomination_.

Mariel sat perched against a window, in the room which was otherwise abandoned if not for her and Murtagh. Laeranír lay flat against her crossed legs, and she closed her eyes, delving deep within her psyche. She searched desperately down every dark tunnel of her mind, hoping for the answers which only seemed to dodge about. They continued leading her further on, flashing a light in the darkness around her, teasing her and just as she thought she would reach it, she looked around the darkness only to realize it had escaped into the nothingness that consumed her. In frustration, she banged her head back, just to have it painfully connect with the stone wall behind her. Throbbing pain coursed through her head and she swore violently, waking from her reverie.

"What language is that?" Murtagh asked quietly, he seemed to have returned, somewhat, to his body. Mariel could sense he was much wearier now, as if whatever he had been thinking of wore greatly on him, and he looked troubled…almost hopeless.

Mariel felt her cheeks flush as once again, she had managed to blow more of her cover.

_Why did I have to use an _Earth _swear?_

Squelching her embarrassment, she came up with the first thing that came to her.

"I don't know, it just came out." Her reply came out much more volatile than she had anticipated. He didn't flinch back from her heated response, and he didn't look very convinced either.

"Let's get this over with." Once again she could sense his great mental fatigue and noticed how he seemed to have resigned himself to a rather unpleasant fact.

Three hours later, when their relentless fighting had finally reached an end, found Mariel with several more losses and not one victory to her name – needless to say, she was quite frustrated. Every time one of their fights seemed as if it could go either way, her impatience would drive her to making a desperate maneuver. It was in this way that her temper cost her every last victory. No matter how she tried to think of something else, she couldn't rein in the vast impatience which flooded her. The instincts which had won every battle previous to meeting Murtagh failed her, and this only served to provoke her distemper.

Luckily Murtagh didn't seem overly aware of her numerous defeats, nor even the many of his own victories. His detached mood of before carried on throughout their entire practice, not alleviating in the slightest; his eyes were elsewhere, his moves seemed distracted, and weren't as calculating as before. The fact that Murtagh could defeat her without even paying attention, infuriated Mariel more than anything else…he could beat her _absentmindedly._

By the time she had stormed her way back into her quarters, her face was a furious shade of red and her cynical side supplied that she must match the color of his blade. It was in that single thought that made every last pigment flood from her face.

She whirled around towards her mirror, hoping that she would see what she did not have on – she had left her mask in the training room. Silently cursing her inobservance, she collapsed onto her bed: how had she forgotten it? In the three years she had worn it, not once had she forgotten to put it on. But her anger of losing continuously seemed to have distracted her enough to forget to remember she needed to put it back on.

Mariel wondered bitterly how many of the servants had taken notice to her, and if any of them would begin to wonder why no one had ever spoken of her – why they had never seen her before. Purple eyes were not a common thing, even in this mysterious Alagaësia, and they were quite a defining feature. If anyone had paid close attention to her, then she would not be easily forgotten.

In only a few more moments, she resolved that she would have to retrieve it immediately, lest anymore damage be caused. What if Galbatorix were to summon her, as of this moment and she appeared before him without it on? Would he be mad?

_No, probably not, _she admitted, _but he _would _be disappointed._

Getting up from her bed, Mariel made it to the door and swung it open. Stepping out into the open, she crashed into something she had been to busy to notice – a person. Mentally cursing her bad luck, she did the first thing that came to her mind: she covered her unnatural eyes with her hand, it was crude but effective.

"Real subtle," came the frosty voice from beneath her. She removed the hand from her eyes and opened them to find herself on top of the one person she had hoped to avoid for the rest of her life.

"Murtagh." What she had hoped would come out as a strong and furious tone came out more as a question.

"Yes, now would you mind getting off of him?" He snapped bitingly up towards her.

"Yeah, because I _enjoyed _falling on top of you," She muttered back with just as much venom, pushing herself from him and then standing up to her full height. Murtagh mimicked her actions, leaving him a few inches above her stature.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing outside?" He countered, seemingly oblivious to the deathly glares she gave him.

"Walking, what does it look like?"

"It seemed more like falling to me."

Mariel groaned in frustration,

"Ugh – just get out of my way, will you?"

"Well I could," He smirked down at her, "but then I wouldn't be able to give you this."

From within his pocket he withdrew the wound up black leather.

"Where did –" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Why do you have it?"

"Because someone quite carelessly forgot to bring it up with her," Murtagh answered her coolly.

Snatching it from his open hand, she grabbed back the piece she had left her room for in the first.

"Why do you wear that thing anyway?" For once she noticed that Murtagh seemed to genuinely be talking to her, not just the mocking tone he usually bore.

She stared up at him blankly, confused by his, well…_stupidity._

"To cover my face," She answered slowly, as if it were a trick question.

He sighed, "Really. Don't demean my intelligence – of course that's what it's used for."

"Then what do –"

"What I meant," He interrupted her, "is why? Why can't people know who you are? Why can't anyone see you?"

It took Mariel a moment to regain composure over her features. She hadn't expected such a direct confrontation from him – and so soon. As she looked back up at Murtagh she realized that she had no answer to give him. Galbatorix had never prepared her for this situation, because no one was ever to _see _her face.

His gaze narrowed as he looked intently down at her, "What are you?"

Mariel's insecurities resurfaced the moment she heard the whisper, almost accusing, escape from his lips. And once more, she knew that she didn't have an answer for him; _she _didn't even know what she was.

"I," she began after a lengthy silence, "I…I don't know," She finished honestly.

"You're lying." His voice left no room for argument, and Mariel got the feeling that no matter what she said, he wouldn't believe her.

He jabbed a finger towards her, "You know _exactly _what you are. And you're going to tell me."

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized their proximity, and she took an involuntary step from him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," She replied truthfully, surprised that the voice hadn't begun tormenting her thoughts once more.

"That voice," He began, "whose was it?"

Mariel didn't have to ask him for confirmation; she knew what he was speaking of. The voice of the man had escaped from the confines of her mind and taken full use of her mouth, but she didn't know. She didn't know who he was.

She sighed resignedly at him,

"I honestly have no clue."

It was a while before he spoke again, and his words took her by surprise.

"Don't you wish you could see? Don't you ever tire of seeing naught but darkness? Don't you wish you could see what's around you?"

She wanted to tell him that she did. She wanted to tell him that she _hated _being blind to the world around her. In that one moment, in that one instant in which he was human and wasn't hiding behind the cold anger he set about him, she wanted to tell him everything. So of course she didn't, and her voice came out cold, cruel – a surprise to her listening ears.

"Don't you wish you didn't have to hide behind your own mask? Don't you ever tire of hiding behind your cold resolve? You call me the abomination, but I've seen the atrocities you've done with that sword. Don't you ever wish that you could _feel_ like everyone else?"

Silence raged between the two, and Mariel wished she could find the humility to take it all back. Yet at the same time she yearned to know his answer, and when it finally came it wasn't anything like she expected.

"Never forget while you're in that perfect little world inside your head," Murtagh began, his voice more frigid than ice. Except then he stopped, and seemed to be struggling with himself. But when he spoke again, if it were possible, he seemed even more detached than when he first began, "Never forget that while you live in some perfect world of your imagination, that one day you're going to wake up. You're going to wake up only to realize that you live in hell, and you're working for the devil."

Mariel watched, utterly speechless, as Murtagh turned from her and stalked off to whichever direction he had come from. Once he was out of sight, she sank to the stone floor, sliding against the cold wall. She felt a solitary tear slip down her face, only to be followed instants later by a flood of the salty liquid. She tried to think of anything, tried to focus her blurry vision on something – tried to forget what he had said to her. But no matter the many attempts, she couldn't get his haunting words to leave her alone, to get out of her head.

_You live in hell, and you're working for the devil. You live in hell, and you're working for the devil…_

It was several hours before Mariel moved an inch. Night had graced the dark sky about the castle, long before she managed to find the strength to push off the floor, return to her quarters and wipe the tears from her face.

**A/N: Next one up's gonna be Eragon because I need to move his plot along(: hope you enjoyed it and if you're wondering why it's called that, it's because of what Murtagh told her at the end of the chapter. He's hinting to her that Galbatorix isn't what she thinks he is – that she lives in her own imagination. Tell me what you think!**


	5. C4 A Reason To Live

**A/N: Sorry this update took forever to get up, I have 3 main reasons: I was on vacation with no internet, I was helping my sis rewrite "Fred and George Did It" (you should check it out, it's by Policin' Yer Grammar) and….WRITER'S BLOCK. (which I seem to get whenever writing Eragon's POV) This chapter was sooo excruciating for me to have to write. But we need nasty, ugly Eragon chapters to further the plot…**

**To Vassili: Thanks(: And yeah I really like Murtagh's character. He was asking Mariel if she wished she could see because he's trying to find out why she's so important and what Galbatorix is doing with her. Yes, it was Mariel who said it and I know! She's **_**so **_**mean…well to Murtagh, anyway ;). And aghhh! I hate spiders. [huge arachnaphobic here] but thanks! And yeah, I don't appreciate droning…so tell me if I become a droner! Haha, here is your nice shiny update. Please enjoy(:**

**Lucy: haha, sorry I tried to think of something. But I really can't think of any use for another character. Mi dispiace.**

**Policin' Yer Grammar: Yes, you saw me freaking out when I realized what I wrote. Haha, Murtagh getting stabbed was a result of a slight case of writer's block…but I still would have preferred it to be the lower stomach or something, but apparently that's "too vital". Hmmm….**

**Dragonlord96, she's gonna find out. But not as soon as one would expect. She's got some serious character growth to experience. And a very important event which will lead her towards the truth. She doesn't trust Murtagh as of yet, and can't really piece together what he told her.**

**To Dragnerz: Welcome back! Thank you so much! It really means a lot to me(: I'm glad you enjoy the story so much. I love Murtagh and Thorn as well: they are my favorites. (Shh, don't tell Eragon! Haha;) Yes, Mariel is insane! I love her. She's slightly crazy (you know, with the voices and all) and completely overreacts when it comes to Murtagh. You'll be reasonably surprised with what Galby has in store for Mariel, and yes! I, too, am itching to see what's going to happen when she finds out his true nature. My fingers haven't quite felt the need to queu in my mind as to how she'll be taking it. But there will be screaming. Not necessarily at Galby, but she'll be yelling at someone. And I'm sure your writing is great, (I'll be going over as soon as I find the time to check it out)! My own writing seems rusty to me – I look back a few years and read some of my old stuff now, and I'm like "wow, I can't believe I wrote that. I could **_**never **_**write that now." Thanks again, and I **_**love **_**the wolf that you created on deviantart! It's 100% AWESOME! **

**Thanks to everyone else, normally I'd give you a shout out but this A/N is long enough :/**

Chapter Four: A Reason To Live

"The difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, not a lack of knowledge, but rather in a lack of will."

- Vince Lombardi

_No…try again. But this time, tuck in your tail more as you twist._

Eragon could sense Saphira's growing impatience. They had been in the sky for several, uninterrupted hours training as Glaedr instructed each of them to their own specific needs.

Ever since the three had returned to the Varden in Feinster it had been constant, nonstop training for both Saphira and him. While Glaedr instructed Saphira in new aerial battle tactics, he also taught Eragon several new words in the ancient language. Saphira's training was far more brutal, as Eragon soon came to find out. This was mostly due to the fact that Glaedr couldn't demonstrate with his body – so she never knew exactly what move he was describing, and it often took hours before she managed to gain Glaedr's satisfaction.

It was this reason, more than anything else, which contributed to her frustration. Training was much harder when you didn't have a proper example to base yours from.

_Is _this _it? _Saphira mentally questioned the golden dragon's heart of hearts.

She performed a graceful twirling arc in the air, and then whirled about fiercely in a move which would have left the opposing dragon's back exposed to her teeth.

_Not quite…try once more._

Saphira let out a low growl, but complied nevertheless.

Eragon could sense Glaedr's mild approvement from the pleased humming which emanated from his designated pouch in Saphira's saddle.

_That's enough for now – you may return from training for today._

Eragon barely heard Saphira's heartened roar at the news before she was diving towards Feinster, waiting only the slightest of moments after Glaedr's statement before plummeting down.

Eragon could feel the cold air whipping about him, and cherished the undeniable freedom he felt whenever on her back. Saphira continued down, tucking her wings in to increase the speed of her nosedive, only encouraged by Eragon's roaring to the open sky.

Feinster was soon no longer a darkened blot amongst the green around it, fleshing out into a square which grew by the second. Soon Eragon's squinted eyes could make out tiny dots bustling about to fortify the castle.

Saphira continued to plunge back to the Varden, her momentum increasing. Everything about the pair was a blur as the moisture was torn from Eragon's eyes, even as they began to water. For the briefest of moments Eragon felt a sudden fear pound through his chest, frightened they would fall to their doom, but Saphira ripped her wings out just in time. She then continued to glide down the remaining feet towards her designated platform.

_Hmmph. _Was her arrogant response at having identified Eragon's unjustified fear.

Eragon's lips curved slightly, allowing a small smile. He patted her shoulder affectionately.

_I shouldn't have doubted you, Saphira._

…_worrying two-legs…_

Eragon swiftly dismounted from his sapphire companion, turning to look at Saphira in her matching deep-blue eyes.

_I'll be back. _He promised mentally, before turning away from her and tearing through Feinster at speeds which any passerby wouldn't hesitate to name inhuman.

To where he ran, Eragon was not entirely sure, but he knew why without a doubt. Arya was leaving today. He wasn't about to miss seeing her farewell for who knew how long – and he had a sneaky suspicion her mother, Queen Islanzadí wouldn't be overly excited to relinquish her only child to the Varden.

_Here. _Saphira brushed an image against Eragon's psyche: she had found Arya. Eragon reached out to thank Saphira as she returned to the skies, beginning the hunt. As he neared the area he had been shown, he began to slow. He didn't want to appear too eager when around her.

"Arya!" Eragon hailed and the elf in question turned about to face him. As she realized it was Eragon who had called, her face instantly brightened into a smile. It still took Eragon several moments to realize she was smiling at _him_. Ever since their excursion with the Shade, Varaug, Arya had been much more open to Eragon. But it still wasn't in the way he truly would have appreciated; they were just friends. But that was good enough for him. For now.

"Eragon." Her voice was soft, angelic to Eragon's ears. He rushed over towards her, throwing aside his previous hesitation. "I see you have not forgotten that today Blödhgarm and I depart for Osilon."

Eragon nodded his affirmation. "I haven't."

"Osthato Chetowä shall live on forever in the memory of his people." Arya's eyes darkened for a moment, before she managed to mask her pain.

"I wish I could come," Eragon confessed, fighting to keep his voice from breaking.

_No_, he chided himself. _No you promised you wouldn't mourn for them anymore._

"It was not to be," Arya cut through Eragon's rapidly darkening thoughts. Eragon cleared his face of any emotion that could betray him. He swiftly went about changing the subject.

"When do you expect to return?"

Arya contemplated this for a while, a shadow clouding over her slanted features. "I know not, Shadeslayer. We wish to return to the Varden before they begin the siege of Belatona. However…fortune would have to smile greatly upon us for this to happen."

Eragon's throat tightened and he jerked his head swiftly once. He had expected that it was too much to expect such a rapid return. He smiled wryly down at her. "May the fates be with you Arya, Blödhgarm."

Arya's face crumpled for an instant, revealing how truly vulnerable she was at the moment. Without warning, she flung her arms around Eragon, tightly embracing him.

"Be safe, Eragon," she whispered ominously in his ear.

Before Eragon had even managed to return the unexpected embrace, Arya had released him.

"Farewell, Shadeslayer," Blödhgarm murmured, pressing his fingers to his lips as he bowed his head.

Eragon didn't trust himself to speak and merely nodded in the furry elf's direction. As the pair turned towards the opened gate, shouldering their packs, Eragon turned about to pointlessly meander the streets.

"And Eragon?"

Eragon whipped his head about, fixing a puzzled glance on Arya.

"Yes?"

"Nasuada demands your company." With that Arya turned from Eragon, not waiting to hear his confirmation at her words. She walked resolutely through the gates, not pausing for a single glance back.

Eragon was left to stare after her as she disappeared from his horizon, running to the ends of Alagaësia as if the beasts of Hell had been loosed on her.

Without waiting for another moment's pause, Eragon turned from the setting sun, barely visible over the towering gates of Feinster. He resumed his breakneck speed as he set his destination towards where the keep, where Nasuada was awaiting him.

Eragon did his best to ignore the gasps of admiration and shock as he flew by the citizens of Feinster, and the soldiers of the Varden alike. Buildings melted into brown smudges and he barely felt his feet as he flew forward. He bit back his resignation as the guards permitted him entrance to the keep. Eragon only wished to return to his tent, contemplating all that must be done in such short amounts of time, and how – if it all – to defeat Galbatorix. He was in no mood to stay in polite company, forced to put on a show for the nobles at Nasuada's beckoning.

The sight which greeted his eyes was not at all like he had expected: the room was barren of its customary overbearing, overeager nobles whose only interest was in furthering their own selfish ends. Only Nasuada herself, Jörmundur, King Orrin, the newly crowned dwarf-king Orik, and a few Surdan advisors of Orrin were in the room. Eragon frowned slightly, wondering why he had been requested to a room of such power without Saphira at his side.

Nasuada's eyes flashed up to Eragon's, and in that split second Eragon saw her anxiousness; the terror she held for the Varden and now the people of Surda as well. Eragon could tell that she feared they would not survive; he had never seen Nasuada so hopeless. Eragon's throat constricted as he analyzed the room at large.

Jörmundur bore the same fear as his Queen, if not worse. Jörmundur's face was much easier to read than Nasuada's had been in her fleeting moment of weakness. King Orrin bore great circles beneath his eyes and his mouth was a grim line of determination: there was no turning back now. Eragon's eyes flicked to Orik.

Orik grinned up to Eragon with a reassuring smile and a wink. Eragon's frown deepened. He felt as if Orik had something up his sleeve that the others hadn't thought of yet.

"Eragon." Nasuada's voice was tired and cracked at unnatural places.

"Yes, my lady?" Eragon eyed her head on, wishing to give her some comfort in that one glance. She appeared not to take proper notice of him and swiftly returned her gaze to the maps scattered haphazardly across the desk they were all gathered about.

"We are currently strategizing the siege of Belatona. If what our spies say is correct, then this battle could very well be our last." It was Orrin who had answered Eragon. In an instant Nasuada's eyes flashed dangerously in the Surdan King's direction. Her fierce eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

"It is better to go out fighting for what is good in this world rather than to sit by and pretend it does not exist. If it is to be our end, then it will be an end worthy for the bards to sing of in ages to come."

"I do not question the purity of our actions, Nasuada – merely the outcome we will achieve." The tired rhetoric of Orrin's response led Eragon to believe that this was not the first time Nasuada had brought this up.

Orik coughed loudly, bringing their attention back to the problem at large, before it could escalate further. When Eragon glanced down at his hefty friend, the dwarven king winked up at him secretively. This only furthered Eragon's confusion at Orik's strangely cheery demeanor, juxtaposed against the monotonous gloom plastered across the face of every other in the room.

"Now," Nasuada began again, regaining her formal edge, "we are to set out the main force of our men here," she jabbed pointedly at a particular mark on the map, "and send the men with our siege equipment in front of them. Every second we fight against that wall in vain, we lose scores of men to their archers – the quicker we breach the wall, the faster our victory will come.

"Taking Belatona will be infinitely more challenging than taking Feinster was. The city of Belatona is meant to be a stronghold: it is designed for sieges such as this. It has three tiers, all of which must be breached separately and each is a siege in and of itself. Inside the last tier is the keep, which is sure to hold the best magicians Galbatorix can manage on such short notice. If we do not make our brief victory in good time, then Belatona will be our tomb. We _must _break through the first wall swiftly if we wish to keep up the men's morale. There is no doubt that breaching the outermost wall will be the most challenging."

Nasuada rummaged through the pile of wrinkled and folded parchment scattered across the wooden end table, until her hands reached what she was looking for. She surveyed the group steadily; her eyes alight with some passion unknown to Eragon.

"What I am about to show you…I trust that it will stay in this room."

"My advisors have already been sworn to secrecy, Lady – as have yours," King Orrin informed her, a bored expression donning his features. Eragon assumed that the Surdan King was already aware of whatever news Nasuada was about to inform them of.

"And I, dear Lady, trust that I shall not be regretting this mine oath…" Orik looked at Nasuada questioningly, but swore nonetheless.

Eragon surveyed the proceedings with wary eyes, curious as to what she might be so worried of. Nasuada then fixed her eyes on Eragon questioningly. The room had fallen into a silent stupor since Orik's oath, and it took him several more moments to realize they were waiting for his answer.

Once more Eragon found that he was boxed in; there was no way to reject her.

_You've already sworn your fealty to Nasuada and upsetting her would not be wise. If you refuse now, she can just order me to secrecy._

"I give you my word as the last free Rider and, excluding Saphira, no one shall gain any knowledge of the matter from me."

Nasuada nodded, swallowing tightly.

"A few hours past I received this letter from our scouts," she waved the crinkled paper before them all as she took a steadying breath, "There are reinforcements coming to Belatona in one month's time. The Empire expects an attack on Belatona, and they seem to know just when it will happen."

The room was deathly silent as they all analyzed this new bit of information.

"Treachery," Orik growled out, pounding his axe on the ground viciously.

"Yes," Nasuada answered after a moment's silence. "Once more, it seems we have a spy in our midst. We must be exceedingly careful that this information does not leave this room. If the potential spy learns we know of him, then he will try something rash. Even if fortune smiles greatly upon us, and there is no spy, our men cannot learn of the Empire bringing in reinforcements. I do not wish to dabble in the art of trickery, but if they were to learn of this, then it will dishearten them considerably. We will lose if they learn of this." Nasuada's eyes burned dangerously, glaring from one member of the room to next with unwavering passion. In turn, each nodded in agreement to her. Nasuada's tense face relaxed somewhat at their acquiescence.

"Now, to the planning of Belatona's siege. Have any of you an idea, as it seems my brain has run dry towards _this_." She motioned tiredly towards the map splayed across the table for all to see.

Orik looked fiercely up at Nasuada, happy to have been given a chance to voice his idea. "I do, mine Lady-Queen."

Nasuada raised a questioning eyebrow, her face brightening considerably. "Ah, Orik of the Dwarves," she smiled affectionately at the shortest of their companions, "please continue."

Orik smiled widely, his tombstone teeth showing, framed by his braided beard. He walked up to the map and jabbed at the ground around the castle's outer tier. "I shall have mine greatest miners dig here," he motioned his finger around the exterior of the wall, "under cover of night, and silent as the grave. We shall put up support beams until the battle grows near. Then, when the time is right they shall be removed. Belatona's walls will collapse and your men will gain quick entry to the castle."

Nasuada looked hopeful at Orik's words, but a frown still creased across her features. "How fast can this be done?"

"They shall work tirelessly, Nasuada. It shall be completed in time."

Nasuada's lips pulled upward into a genuine smile and nodded in his direction.

"First you should have them check for any protective wards which might be placed around the walls. I thank you, King Orik, once more for your generous contributions to the Varden."

" 'Tis mine pleasure," Orik rumbled up, glaring up at her with fierce pride.

Nasuada clapped her hands together. "Our siege equipment will be properly constructed at that point, so the men will lay siege to the first tier and, assuming collapsing the walls is successful, will destroy any remaining rubble in our way. While they do this Eragon, you are to fly with Saphira, just out of the archer's reach, and drop rocks down on them. Then you are to return to the ground; I will not take the risk of you being shot full of arrows. I shall be leading the Varden forward into Belatona, as Orrin shall be doing with the Surdans on the opposite side of the collapsed wall. We shall overwhelm them from all sides, and with the collapse of the walls, shall hopefully gain back some measure of the element of surprise. Both our armies will meet up before we take on the keep. We will need your strength, Eragon, at this point, as well as the Elven spell casters Islanzadí sent to protect you…Do any of you have further ideas?"

King Orrin was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It appears we will need a distraction for our ladders to find their way to Belatona's walls. We will need a division of men to charge the walls while we send up the ladders. I suggest that our best fighters be sent, Nasuada, seeing as they'll be taking heavy casualties."

Nasuada nodded in agreement. "A fair suggestion, King Orrin. I believe I have just the man: Roran Stronghammer. He and his men will lead as the distraction."

Eragon bristled at her statement, but before he could voice his objections, Nasuada was speaking.

"Roran is just the man for the job, Eragon. He will fight with unmatched bravery and cunning; I find it quite unlikely that he would _allow _himself to fall in battle. With him serving as a distraction we will gain the first tier, and save many lives by doing this." Nasuada's tone softened somewhat. "Your cousin would wish to fight as best he could. He would not accept it any other way."

Eragon watched her guardedly, masking the strange fury he felt raging beneath him.

_Does she so willingly send Roran to his grave?_

Eragon wished now more than ever that Saphira was there to share his thoughts, and not off hunting in an unknown forest. He felt an unnerving need to be reassured of their purpose.

"If everything is settled, then I shall take my leave, Lady." He finally spoke after several moment's of empty silence. Nasuada eyed him levelly, but then relented.

"Do what you deem best, Eragon. But be prepared for me to call on you at a moment's notice." Eragon didn't grace her with a reply and left the room without another word.

His mind was swimming as he slowly trudged down the many stairs; too exhausted to bother with magic transportation.

He felt as if Nasuada had kept information from him. Why else could she have looked as if she'd seen a ghost? The entire room was ashen, as if discussing in which manner they'd be tortured and then killed. Orik was the only one who kept some semblance of humanity to his features. Then again the dwarf king was always looking on the upside of things. Rarely anything ever brought him down.

Eragon felt a clinging wetness sting at his eyes and he felt a sinking sensation that back in the room they were not speaking of possibility, but of their future. He felt something cold and icy steel over him. They would not be returning. They would die in Belatona.

"No," Eragon growled fiercely to himself as he rounded towards the stairs of the next level, descending them at an increasing pace. But the darker side of his mind was murmuring that someone wouldn't return. It then supplied him an image of Roran, cold and lifeless on the bloody ground of a battle field.

_You know he won't come back. Not if Nasuada sends him off as a _distraction.

Eragon shook himself angrily.

_Nasuada has never led us wrong. She knows what she's doing._

He felt extremely foolish arguing with himself, but he couldn't banish the clining feeling that it was right; that someone would die at Belatona.

Eragon ripped open the flap of his tent angrily, thrusting himself viciously into a nearby chair. He glared at anything in sight and a vicious anger roiled beneath him as he waited for Saphira's return.

He waited there for several more hours, not moving an inch. His eyes had gained a glazed edge to them, and his mouth twisted down into a grimace. A scene was burning its way beneath his raging brown eyes, tormenting him.

Fires burned all about, and at a first glance the city itself seemed to have been built of the selfsame inferno. One could hardly make out the sky above because of the smoke clogging all about, suffocating. Screams of dying men ripped through the crackling of the flames, chilling Eragon to the bone.

Strangely, the battle seemed to go in the Varden's favor. The first tier of Belatona's defenses had fallen easily enough, and the second tier of the wall was following rapidly in pursuit. All about him, men of the Empire were hacked to shreds by his blade, Brisingr. The instant one fell, he replaced by another of his innumerous comrades. Saphira was beside Eragon, opening her flaming maw to any who dared venture too close, feeding the wild flames all about them. He felt a ghost of a mirthless smile tugging at his lips as he saw that their victory would soon be at hand: the second gate had almost been broken.

Then Eragon heard a loud scream, and his eyes flew up towards where the noise had come. All that he could make out were two darkened shadows which danced about the other, eager to clutch its opponent in a deathly embrace. It was soon apparent to Eragon that the slighter, more agile figure was clearly the superior in this battle of tactics. Almost as if to second his assumptions, the figure stabbed out towards the slower of the two, their aim striking true.

"Eragon!" A voice cried out, but Eragon could barely hear it above the din of the battle. "Eragon – I need you!" The voice rang out again, cracking.

Without warning the swift, lithe shape stabbed out once again towards the voice who had called for aid. Time seemed to slow as Eragon watched, in horror, as the shadow fell to the ground above him with a strangled scream. It took Eragon several moments to realize the person was dead.

"_NO!_" An unearthly howl rent the air, ripping its way free of his lungs; Eragon couldn't even recognize his own mangled voice.

He saw his vision fade into a red blur, as he felt an unreasonable fury pound through his every vein. In an instant his legs began moving, breaking into a run. He was swiftly met by the mass of soldiers which were all about, quickly surrounding him. Eragon struck out, hacking left and right in a righteous craze: desperate to reach the second tier where the figure had fallen. Where the murderer undoubtedly still was. Saphira's mental cry that he stay, that he wait for her to reach him was all lost on Eragon. He barely saw the men he felled as he hacked a haphazard path, struggling towards the fallen figure. All he knew was that this couldn't be it – it couldn't be the end.

Eragon's ears echoed over and over again, rehashing the plea which had cried out for his help. The voice which he hadn't managed to get to in time. Men fell at his feet, mangled corpses which hardly stood a chance against his crazed bloodlust. Eragon whirled about, ducking left and right as he dodged their numerous blows. He appeared immune to the painful blows of those who had managed to break through his defenses, ripping into his flesh and causing blood to stream out.

All that Eragon had an understanding of was the fact that whoever had killed the voice was getting away. Every second that he was trapped down on the first tier, the figure was given more time to make their escape.

His blazing sword struck all about him, felling anyone who dared to come between him and his quarry. For a time he seemed invincible, as if no wound could stop him. Then, in a single moment Eragon felt all the pain and exhaustion hit him, bringing him down to his knees. His breath was stolen right from his lungs and he let out an unearthly howl as he felt the power of some dark magician rip through his mind, uttering some foreign spell to suffocate him.

Time itself seemed to freeze as his starved lungs worked futilely to take in any amount of precious air. But the enemy magician's hold was unmovable, not budging in the slightest. Eragon saw as his vision faded black about the edges while any noise around him began to slow, until it was naught but a silent whisper. Several moments of this acute form of torture passed before any change was made. Then everything went a dull, cold black and the haunting voices were no more.

Eragon awoke from his reverie with a start, letting out a small gasp as his proper vision was restored. The burning fires of Belatona no longer hungrily devoured anything within its reach, having been replaced with the cool atmosphere of his cool, dark tent. No more did overwhelming guilt flood through every sense of his body: whoever it was who died in his vision was still alive.

A shiver wracked through Eragon's frame, and he noticed for the first time that a fine sheen of cold sweat had broken out over his skin. He expected to feel Saphira's alarm at his vision, he expected to feel her warming comfort, but was greeted only by further silence. Saphira was still out hunting.

Eragon ran a finger through his hair, trying to relax his tense nerves.

"It was just a dream." He muttered it over and over, trying to convince himself of the inevitable.

_You're just being paranoid because of the upcoming siege…and because Nasuada's sending Roran out as a distraction._

Eragon held back a revolting feeling which threatened to surge through him again. He couldn't believe Nasuada would so willingly sacrifice Roran…

But then a sick thought struck him.

_Is his life more important than any other man's? What of the men with families to support? Is he somehow above them?_

"No," Eragon answered his pessimistic side, "only to me."

Silence reigned for several more hours as Eragon fought with an inner turmoil which the vision had brought about.

Should he tell Saphira? Eragon felt almost instantaneous agreement with this solution, but for smaller, nagging part of him. This side told him it would be better if he kept it away, hidden only to himself and it told him not to inform Saphira of anything.

_What could she really do anyway? _He reasoned with himself.

If he showed her what he'd seen, it would only prove to set her on edge and make her even more paranoid about Eragon's wellbeing than normal.

Eragon soon arrived at the conclusion that he would keep his hellish foresight to himself and not speak of it to a soul. He wasn't even to think of it, for Saphira had full access to his thoughts…she would know if he hid something from her…but not if he was alone.

Eragon knew that if he was faced with solitude such as this, the vision would creep up again, until it had overwhelmed every last one of his senses. Already he could feel it tugging about the corners of his sight, whispering hauntingly into his ears…burning through his skin. Faintly, he could make out the pungent odor of death. Death and fire. Before he was wrapped back into his fears, Eragon sat up, reaching out towards the basin of water at his feet and he splashed frigid water across his face.

Eragon attempted to steady his breathing as he sat back up in his chair, facing the wall in front of him.

He glared furiously into the mirror held in place, barely recognizing the person he found there.

_You were once happy._

Eragon could remember a younger, innocent and much more _human _version of himself running about the fields of his uncle Garrow's farm, tussling with Roran. Memories flooded beneath his wild brown eyes: the first time he hunted, exploring the Spine, working in the fields beside the few close enough to be considered his family. He remembered sitting by a crackling fire as he, and the majority of Carvahall, listened to one of Brom's tales of some ancient battle past. He remembered bitterly how he had once wished to be in such a tale. He had once wished to be in the battles of old, sung of by the bards for countless ages to come.

"What have you become?" His voice sounded accusing, even to his own ears. "You can't even recognize yourself." It was a whisper, barely audible.

Eragon desperately wished to deny the voice, but he knew that deep down inside, it was true. He wouldn't have known this strange face to be his own, if it did not respond just as he did.

What little was left of his innocence had been stripped, and he could see himself for what he truly had become. Had he really come so far that killing no longer bothered him? Was he so powerful that the men who he had once been counted among no longer trusted him? Whenever he walked into a room, it would fall silent as everyone would watch him with awed, somewhat reproachful eyes. It was impossible to carry on a normal conversation with any one of them. He didn't belong to the human race anymore, and finally coming to terms with this left a giant, gaping hole in Eragon's chest.

"You asked for this," he reminded himself bitterly.

_ But at the time…at the time I didn't realize what it would mean: the sacrifice I would give._

"It doesn't matter now. You can't go back. This is your life, and there's no going back now. You asked for this." He repeated to himself, trying to force it in.  
_Yes, _Eragon admitted, _but if I had the chance – _Eragon stopped short, analyzing himself in the mirror. He shrunk back from the cold, blank look he found in his eyes. Had he really become so emotionless?

"You aren't Eragon the farm boy anymore."

_No…no, I'm not._

"Is this really what you wanted?"

Eragon closed his eyes, fighting back the angry glare that had found its way onto his face.

_If I could…I wish that none of this had ever happened. I swear, this wasn't what I wanted._

Eragon fell back to the chair, bringing his knees up to his face. In all of his life, he had never felt so completely, utterly alone.

_Why do you do this? _The voice in the back of his head asked.

Eragon sat there with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, contemplating the question. A separate battle seemed to rage within him, as he struggled with the query. It almost seemed as if he would let himself go unanswered, but then a spark ignited in his eyes as he finally found his reason.

Snapping his eyes back up to the mirror, Eragon fixed them on the reflection he found there. He studied the inhuman features which glared back at him.

"So that no one else has to. If my sacrifice can save them, then it's worth it;if no one else will do this then nothing will be done. Evil will not be rid of itself – someone has to do it." Eragon smiled wryly at himself. "Well…well I guess that it just happens to be me."

With one final glance at the mirror, Eragon doused the candle on the desk and resigned himself to the waking dreams which were his sleep.


	6. C5 Practice Makes Perfect

**A/N: Finally! A new chapter! I know guys, really **_**really **_**sorry about the wait. What can I say? Three honors courses, two math courses and AP bio really haven't been treating me well. Sorry if this chapter is a little rushed, I intend to keep my promise (of posting a new chapter by the end of Christmas break). I really hope you guys enjoy this and again **_**really **_**sorry about the wait. Hopefully the next one won't be as long because I've sort of been writing this out of order. If you enjoy it, please review! (and please **_**please **_**forgive me for being so late!)**

**Edit: Okay, FF randomly didn't upload the other half of this chapter. Ugh. Sorry for the inconvenience, guys!**

Chapter Five: Practice Makes Perfect

"You're gonna set my house on fire, just to prove that you were there."

-'Rolling In On A Burning Tire' by The Dead Weather.

Pain. Burning, white-hot pain. Fires leapt across Mariel's surroundings and left mere ash in its wake while the flames engulfed tree after tree in their burning embrace. Smoke clogged her nostrils as her starved lungs worked in the ash-strewn air about her. Fires licked dangerously close to her bare skin, and this – more than anything else – set Mariel into a frenzy. Her eyes nearly glowed the same vibrant hue that engulfed her irises – that murderous violet. She let out a beastly howl and attempted a running jump over the flames, but it was of no use. The fire was everywhere. Mariel couldn't remember what the forest had looked like. All there was was burning, pain and fire.

She fell into the flames almost the instant she had jumped over them. Something had blocked her escape. That same being let out a responding roar as it sent her shooting violently up into the air again. Polluted air whipped about, incasing her in a whirlwind of fire and smoke. It tore away what little air her deprived lungs had managed to gasp in. She let out a muffled choking noise as the winds picked up even more, lifting her further and further off the ground. The storm tore about her, forcing her body into painful, unnatural positions as it contorted her body as it saw fit. She let loose a ferocious, primal growl and at the precise moment, her teeth looked more like fangs. Futilely she attempted to break free of that suffocating embrace and it took every ounce of her willpower to chant over and over again inside her head that it _wasn't _real. That none of this was real. Flames licked at her skin, scalding to the touch and the moisture was sucked from her eyes even as she struggled to force them shut.

_Not real. Not real._

But the pain was. That never-ending, unbearable pain wasn't imagined. And as her parched eyes took in that one blue patch of sky – untouched from the burning smoke around it – she realized her failure wasn't either.

"Pathetic." His icy cold voice was an unpleasant shock from the fiery atmosphere she was so accustomed to. It was almost like being doused in frigid water after coming out of a sauna. Or so Mariel imagined – she'd never been in a sauna.

All Mariel could respond with was a choked grunt as her starved lungs took in the plentiful, merciful air. She bitterly noticed that ash _did _come out.

_What the hell?_

Mariel shot Murtagh a both dark and questioning glance, but his back was already to her. She silently pushed herself up from the burning stone floor and took in her surroundings. When she'd come in for practice that morning, several hours ago, the stones had been gray and clean. The pillars had been kept so perfectly that the polished granite reflected the room around it. The air had been spotless – and bitingly cold. Now the walls were charred and ranged from a reddish-brown to the blackest black. The pillars were equally destroyed and ash littered the floor. Scorching air enveloped the pair and ash fluttered down from the ceiling above.

She'd been told this was just practice: that everything that would happen was only in her mind. Apparently Murtagh had gone overboard. Instead of mentioning this to him, Mariel plopped herself down in a clean area of the floor and leaned up against a nearby pillar. She then began tracing patterns into a nearby pile of ash.

"I wonder who's going to clean all this up," she mused aloud to her silent companion. Her lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk as she sensed the surprise emanate from behind her, in the dark shadows that consumed him. That was another bonus of the strange power thrumming within her; an emotional thermometer which _didn't _require being shoved up unsightly places to gain a proper reading. Mariel shifted herself slightly, so as to face him better, and cocked her head slightly to the side. She lifted an eyebrow.

"Well?" she pressed, keeping her voice both soft and commanding simultaneously. "You know where I come from, whoever makes the mess…" she paused again, this time to guess his emotional temperature with her own pair of eyes. Her smile widened at what she saw. "Well…they clean it up."

He quickly covered his confusion at her audacity – and the lack of proper form and etiquette – with his customary cold demeanor.

"Ah, yes. I almost forgot. That little world you live in; the one that doesn't exist."

Mariel didn't favor his frigid words a response and instead turned away from him, facing the open window. A refreshing breeze flew in, staving off the oppressing heat for a precious few moments.

"A servant will," he finally responded.

"And in the mean time?"

"I supposed I could entertain myself by watching your constant failure."

"Failure?" Mariel shot up and was facing Murtagh in an instant, momentarily surprising him with her inhuman speed. "What failure?"

Murtagh glared back at her coldly, but she could easily read past his customary mask; he didn't understand.

"You live in a black and white world, dear sir. Right. Wrong. Success. Failure. I learned. I see nothing regarding failure in that."

No answer. Just his cold, grey eyes boring into her. Mariel felt the urge to turn away from his soul-searching gaze but she stood her ground.

"But…if you really want failure…I trust you healed your leg? At least mine was nothing so permanent." Mariel made to move away from him, but he grabbed her arm fiercely in an iron grip.

"Physical pain is fleeting. It's the guilt of what you've done that…_endures_."

Now _that _took her by surprise.

"What?" Mariel breathed out, her voice nothing more than a surprised whisper. Why was Murtagh so cryptic? Why didn't he just say what he meant and get it over with? She was getting frustrated with his puzzling one-liners and his refusal to elaborate on what they meant. Murtagh didn't disappoint when he completely ignored his previous statement and gruffly ordered her back for another round.

Mariel gritted her teeth in frustration and bit back a swear. _Why was he so impossible?_ Mariel couldn't remember having done anything – excluding the occasional sarcasm and leg-stabbing bit – to have warranted such coldness from him. Then, with a wave of shame, she remembered what she'd told him when he'd gone out of his way to return her mask. She silently cursed her horrible timing and wondered if she could make it up to him. Her personality, even if she excluded the other two waging non-Mariel beings inside her, didn't anticipate that happening.

"No," Mariel answered calmly. She was going to get an answer out of him. Determination was a very strong trait of hers. Murtagh mocked surprise and sobered up somewhat when he realized she wasn't moving to obey him.

"You need to practice. If these practices are anything to go by…well," he snorted somewhat to himself at some private joke, "in a real battle you'd be dead in minutes." That murderous glint in his eyes spoke legions to Mariel. He _wanted _this to be a real fight. He hated her that much.

"You call this _practice?_" Murtagh disregarded her outraged hiss.

"Again," He ordered, taking the necessary steps back from her to begin another mental duel.

"_No._" Mariel repeated again, this time with evident fury, albeit somewhat repressed. Again Murtagh adopted that infuriating mask of mock surprise. "But don't you want to fight? Don't you wish to show your undying loyalty for our dear king?" His voice grew darker, gaining a deadly edge to it, "You know if you don't train you'll die. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

"In what world is this training?" More fury crept into her tone and Mariel was visibly fighting with the roaring beast inside her. It did not like Murtagh. Mariel had to agree with it in that respect.

"Are you so high above us humans that you can't learn from your mistakes? There's plenty enough of them – they should be put to use." Murtagh shot back, favoring her a dark, if not somewhat assessing, glare. He still didn't have a clue what she was. Well, that made two of them. Mariel knew just as much as him.

But right now, that wasn't what was infuriating her. Murtagh was. "_Maybe if you taught me how to _learn _from my mistakes then – _"

"If you don't like my teaching then get a new teacher," Murtagh cut through her stonily. To anyone else his face appeared unreadable, and Mariel would have had to agree, but for that spark of anger she saw flare in his eyes. In the back of her mind Mariel realized she wasn't helping her new goal of deciphering her strange new mentor _or _learning his precision with the blade. She was only making him angrier. With that thought, Mariel diffused some of the anger emanating from her very core and began taking deep, steadying breaths to remove the rest of her pent up animosity. All the while she was glaring at the same charred mark in the wall. She fancied it looked like Murtagh had when she'd stabbed his leg.

But before Mariel could find the humility to apologize, Murtagh turned on his heel and, without another word, he headed towards the door.

"Wait," Mariel breathed in a hushed voice, but she knew it was loud enough for him to hear. He ignored her and kept walking, pulling a glove onto his right hand as he did so. Something within Mariel lurched as pieces began to fit themselves together, knitting over one of the mysteries which surrounded Murtagh.

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd reached out and grabbed that selfsame hand. She knew he wouldn't appreciate the touch, but at least she'd gotten him to pause. But the instant her fingers brushed against his half exposed ones a shock of electricity – no…_magic _– shot up her arm.

But it didn't end. It kept going, some sort of magical flow passed through that simple touch and when her eyes met his she knew he felt it too. Shock flitted across his features and Mariel guessed that he'd never felt that surge of magic before. Mariel opened her mouth to speak, but the second she did the moment was broken.

"Is there something you'd forgotten to tell me?" Murtagh snapped, wrenching his hand away from hers. The connection broke instantaneously and the magical warmth that had been spreading inside her went cold.

"Well?" he pressed.

But Mariel wasn't listening to him. She was staring intently into his frigid expression, trying to grasp just one more puzzle piece before she lost the connection. Memories rushed forth, unbidden, to her eyes. She heard once more the unearthly howl of some great beast as she stabbed Murtagh through the leg. In that howl she heard pain. And anger.

Her eyes flashed down towards the hand which had been mostly covered by his half-gloves. She reached towards the hand she had held but a few moments before, her slender fingers brushed once more against his skin. Again, she felt some burning magic flow between them and as she tried to concentrate on it, it vanished. She blinked open her eyes to realize that he'd once more yanked his hand from her grasp. Almost as if she'd burned him. She realized then that his withdrawal wasn't due to the fact that _she_ had touched him, but because of the strange bond that formed whenever she did. He didn't like experiencing things he couldn't explain.

Nevertheless Mariel reached towards him again. This time she succeeded in keeping a firm grip on his struggling hand, but his curiosity won out over his reluctance. He still wanted to know _why _she'd reached out towards him in the first.

When Murtagh stopped fidgeting enough for her satisfaction, she lifted her other hand and wrapped her fingers around the edge of his glove. She could feel his burning gaze grow more intense as he looked down at her, studying her absorbed expression as he tried to guess at her intentions. Magic flowed stronger through that strange connection and Mariel felt as if a scorching light was growing ever brighter inside her, threatening to explode if the connection wasn't severed. She ignored it and, with a deep breath, she tore the gauntlet from the hand she held. A satisfied gasp fled from her parted lips. Suspicion confirmed.

There, his bare skin unprotected by his glove, was a whitish-silver mark which had been branded into his flesh.

"You're the rider," Mariel said in an undertone, awestruck by the unnatural glow which emanated from his palm. She silently cursed her stupidity for not having realized it sooner.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he managed stiffly after several moments of prolonged silence. He wrenched his hand from hers, once more breaking their strange connection, and sneered down condescendingly down at her. "It's a birthmark."

He then attempted to subtly shield his palm behind his other hand. But Mariel was more interested in studying his expressions. Although at first she'd thought that he only experienced one emotion – cold, furious anger – she'd come to see tiny sparks of other emotions flare behind his heartless façade. And she was getting better and better at deciphering his expressions each day. For instance, right now, even though he feigned a haughty air, he was confused. And, as always, curious.

"A birthmark," she repeated in a low tone, it had meant to be a statement of affirmation, but it came out just as distrustful as she felt.

"Yes."

Mariel analyzed his face quickly once more before arriving at the conclusion that he, quite reasonably, was still furious at her for stabbing him in the leg.

_Among other things. _She swiftly brushed aside that lingering thought and moved on with her accusation.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Murtagh asked her, his voice somehow managing to be both light and arrogant at the same time.

"Yes."

"How so? How would _you _know?" That same annoying tone again.

"I'm very good at detecting liars."

"Well that would be a first." Mariel gave him a puzzled glance and he elaborated. "You know. At you being good at something."

She repressed a groan of frustration. Here she was, thinking they'd been getting somewhere.

"I know exactly what that is." Mariel glanced down meaningfully to his palm. She quickly grabbed his hand and, before he could wrench it free again, pointed at the glowing mark. "The gedwëy ignasia. You're the rider of the red dragon."

He shrugged nonchalantly down at her, not exactly seeming upset at her unveiling his true identity. He fixed his eyes on a spot on the wall furthest from her as he explained. "It's not exactly a secret." Then he added in a dark undertone, "Every person in this damned city knows." Then his eyes stopped roaming the granite walls, snapping back to lock with Mariel's unnatural ones.

"Except for you," he said slowly, and his gaze turned assessing again.

Mariel had no answer for him, only a challenging glare. Instead of asking the most blatant question, like why _didn't _she know, he went for a more subtler tactic.

"How did you know?"

She motioned towards his hand. "I suspected. And your dragon roaring a few days back wasn't exactly discreet." A frown formed between her brows, "I should have realized it then."

"You really aren't let out of your own person world." His voice wasn't quite as vicious as Mariel had expected it to be. She was also still acutely aware of that magical current that still flowed between them. He hadn't released her hand yet.

"Guess not." She offered him a wry half-smile as she blinked back tired eyes.

He nodded, clearly expecting as much. The question had simply been an affirmation.

"What did you mean by that anyway?" Mariel asked softly, trying to word her question in the least offending manner. "You know…the other day?"

His face instantly darkened. "If you can't figure it out, you don't deserve to know."

He dropped his hand from hers and the strange connection vanished. Only a faint tingling remained on Mariel's skin. She shook off the strange sensation as she stared curiously into his eyes, willing him to explain what he'd meant. She knew that the voice inside her head told her to be afraid of him. She knew that the supernatural being humming within her told her the same thing. She _also _knew that Galbatorix had told her not to trust him. _He interprets orders as he sees fit. _But there was something different than the man she'd seen in those visions. Something was different in his face. He didn't look the part of the cold blooded murderer. Yes, he could murder. She didn't doubt that, but…there was something about him. Something good. He wasn't entirely that evil person he flounced about pretending to be.

She felt those same words form in her throat that he'd shot at her several weeks back. _What are you? _

Even as she thought the words to herself, the alien creature inside her supplied her with that vicious, cruel vision again. The murder. The fires. The innocent…dying. Slaughtered. And the man in the center of it all, the man who caused it all, looking on with satisfaction. His eyes were almost alight with the red of bloodlust. But this was full of fire and was savage. As the vision faded once more, she took in Murtagh once more. He was full of ice and yes, he had the cruelty, but his swordsmanship was entirely different. He fought with finesse and eliminated his opponent with as little moves as necessary. The man from her vision dragged out the fight. He enjoyed watching his victims squirm. He loved to watch their agony.

Then a shock of dread shot through her, filling her stomach with queasiness. What if that was what Murtagh would become? It would make sense, because Galbatorix said that dragons were near extinction and hadn't inhabited Alagaësia in that number for over an age. And Dragon Riders were as close to immortal as you could get, excluding the elves of course. But where was his dragon in all of that madness? Had he lost his dragon? Had that been the final straw…the one that turned him into a savage lunatic?

The theory fit a lot of her suspicions, but something didn't sit well with her. Something about him was different…something that not even the grief of losing your soul-bonded partner could bring about.

"Are you ready to go again?" Murtagh's voice drew Mariel out of her thoughts which were full of turmoil and confusion.

_What did it mean?_

It took her several more moments before she responded, but when she did, it was with a hard, determined voice. She _would _defeat him. Just this once. Mind games were _her _forte.

She turned around to face him and he nodded in acknowledgement. The duel had begun. Mariel began to open her mouth in protest, but Murtagh had already ripped her from her mind. Their two consciousnesses clashed together as his freezing fury and her fiery resolve met together in their mental duel. Throbbing, spiking mental pain shot through her. But it was nothing. Her determination drowned out any other emotion, thought or feeling. She needed to win.

Murtagh had dragged her back into that burning inferno of flame, smoke and polluted air.

_Your first mistake then, _Mariel reflected smugly to herself. She was prepared for anything he would throw at her. Murtagh really was growing overly confident. _Either that or he's distracted. _That was also a possibility, but Mariel didn't care as to which category it pertained to. Right now it didn't matter. She needed to win. She could worry about the rest later.

Going for water as her first offensive would be a novice mistake. Murtagh would be overly prepared for it. Especially since it was practically the first thing she'd the previous time. Pushing back the shame from her embarrassing defeat, Mariel concentrated on her current chance for victory.

She felt the familiar brush of thrumming, bestial energy pulse within her. Mariel was about to push it away, as she always did, when a thought struck her. A victory would be almost effortless if she just give into that natural instinct. Mariel was forced to shove the thought away as a massive, burning meteor came hurtling towards her.

_Damn. Damn. Damn._

She continued to curse to herself while simultaneously summoning a fierce wind/ She was soon lifted into the air, away from the fires and the meteor. She had to quickly set about her offensive before he knocked her from the air like he had last time.

Closing her eyes, Mariel struggled at that notch of magic within her, steering clear of the massive energy which thrummed within her chest. That magic was unnatural. For several more moments Mariel's concentration fiercely burned, radiating through every nerve in her body. Then, with a furious roar, Mariel threw her head up to the heavens. With that single motion, a resounding crack broke through the air as the ground beneath her was fractured. It continued to split further and further apart as the energy was drained slowly from Mariel's body.

A fine sweat broke out over her forehead which had nothing to do with the blistering heat that constantly barraged her. That faint vibration of energy began to grow within her, taking over what slight senses Mariel would allow it. She loosed a feral snarl as she successfully broke her one, fire-free, spit of land from its burning mainland. Mariel landed with a crash as she released the air that held her up. Pain shot up her legs as her bare feet connected with ground below. That raging beast within her roared – but not from agony; from frustration.

Her momentum sent her sprawling forward, her hands and knees connecting with the rocks and sand. Tiny gashes tore through her flesh and she felt a fare bit of warm blood trickle down her legs as she forced them up.

That's when she was sent back down to the earth and the very ground beneath her began to shake. And shake. Mariel glanced frantically about her, trying to get a hold on what was happening. What she saw took her breath away. Fire was raining down from the sky.

A bush nearby her caught on fire, causing her to yelp from both surprise and the heat. All the while Mariel could sense that ever-present being within her grab more and more at her sanity, threatening to break in.

"Damn," Mariel muttered as her mind flew through a list of possibilities that might get her out of this mess. She almost just as soon crossed them off the mental checklist when she realized their ineffectiveness.

More fire rained down from the heavens, this one landing several inches from her. Once more, Mariel was sent crashing to the ground. This time the rocks cut through her light armor, ripping into her flesh. She let out a vicious cry of pain as the near-molten rocks burned and stabbed into her skin.

And then it took over. Mariel felt her eyes roll back into her head and her body nearly flew into the air, swirling madly in every which direction. It took Mariel's ever fading consciousness to realize that the beast was taking in a three-sixty assessment of its surroundings. Her spinning began to slow, even as Mariel continued to fade out consciousness, like she was being brutally ripped from her own body.

Mariel violently fought against the alien being which had taken control of her, trying to regain any command of herself. But it was of no use. It was a part of her and wouldn't be so easily banished.

Another fierce howl tore from her blood-red lips and, once more, her teeth bore the appearance of fangs. Her eyes let off a ferocious violet hue, taking over even the whites of her eyes. In a practiced motion, Mariel swung her arms around and began chanting words over and over that she personally had never heard of before in her life. Air barraged Mariel from all sides, sending her long hair in every which way, but still she continued to chant.

At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the fires began to fade out, the very oxygen being torn from its environment. Nothing but grey and black charred ground was left in its wake. The lands were entirely barren and, had Mariel any control of her body, she might have wept at the desolate plains which splayed out before her.

The threat had been eliminated and victory was in sight, but still, the burning energy inside her refused to relinquish its hold on her. It continued to chant, over and over, sucking all the oxygen from the atmosphere. Mariel's consciousness had faded almost entirely from her body at this point, falling into the empty blackness which threatened to consume her.

Mariel couldn't feel the cold granite floor which she had smashed into so violently, and couldn't hear Murtagh spluttering for oxygen on the side across from her. She didn't feel the frigid air biting at her feverish skin, and couldn't even sense her body violently convulsing. She was only vaguely aware of one fact: she was going to die, but her body wasn't. It would live on, with that alien creature inside of her.

She couldn't hear how Murtagh's spluttering had grown to furious indignation, which, on taking in Mariel's own personal battle, had died in his throat.

Neither could she feel him shaking her, trying to get her to break out of her trance. But now more than black greeted her, and she felt a strange sense of peace wash over her. A familiar, calming voice whispered softly in her ear, ordering her awake.

She then felt a sudden jolt shoot through her and, when she opened her eyes, she saw Murtagh violently trying to shake her back into herself. His voice was a stark contrast to the one that had just murmured in her ear. The voice that had given her the strength to fight; it was the voice of the Man. That silver-haired man. The one who shared her eyes.

As the fog continued to fade away, leaving reality in its wake, Mariel realized that Murtagh was giving her that look again. But this time, it wasn't just curiosity. There was fear. He looked at her like she was a mutant, a devil's spawn. Only once the vivid, glowing purple had faded from her eyes and that feral glint had left did Murtagh dare speak.

"Is…is that you?" He asked, his voice wary.

It took Mariel several moments to regain her breath as life continued to flood back into her limbs. _Her _limbs. Her body was under her control again. Mariel tentatively flexed her fingers, staring at them in wonder as they responded to her order.

"You can…hear me…can't you?" There was no sarcasm or cruelty in his tone. Only suspicion…and doubt.

"It's me," Mariel finally answered, almost shocked to hear her voice respond to her wish. It was then that she realized how hoarse it was.

And that's when the pain came. It jarred every one of her senses: burning and tearing at her throat, throbbing and pounding in her head and scalding, ferocious pain burned its way into every last one of her senses. She vaguely remembered the gashes that were still ingrained into her back, legs and almost every other place. Tears flooded her eyes at the sudden pain which flooded her body.

She'd never felt such physical pain before in her life. Her lungs ached, almost not able to bring in enough oxygen after being deprived of it for so long. Mariel made to sit up and heal herself when she realized, with a sickening crunch, that she couldn't get up. She felt blood ooze from her back to the cold granite below and realized with growing trepidation that her spine was broken.

Mariel was too overcome with pain and exhaustion to even plea for help. She just wanted to curl up and die. The agony was unbearable. More tears dripped down her face. And once more, her vision began to fade black around the edges. Though this time it wasn't from being blocked out of her own body. It was the spirit of death, lingering over Mariel to stake its own claim on her body. She struggled fiercely against its clammy grip. This _wasn't _how she was going to go. Not after all this. But she couldn't deny the temptation growing within her; that blackness offered solace. A break from the pain.

_No. _She fought even harder against that frigid touch. She felt Death's cold hand wrap around her wrist, trying to pull her spirit further and further from her body. But then a voice rang out through that deathly silence, and its cold grip on her vanished.

"Waíse heill."

A rush of life shot into her veins, sending some warmth back into frigid body. She was vaguely aware that the pain was fading. Her flesh knitted back together, and her broken bones snapped back into position. Nerves that would have permanently been lost to her suddenly burned fiercely, gaining the feeling it had thought to have lost. She was somewhat aware of the sweat which broke out over her forehead, even as Murtagh removed every last scrape, bruise and broken bone from her body.

It was several minutes before Murtagh finished healing Mariel. When he had it became apparent that the magic – and near death experience – had spent him. His skin was even paler than it usually was and his lips had turned a faint purple. His breathing grew ragged and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. Almost instantaneously, warmth faded back into his features. It wasn't enough to restore him to normal, but it was enough to ensure survival. Then, in a swift gesture, Murtagh pulled Mariel into a sitting position, leaning her against a column.

"Thank you," Mariel choked out, her voice still hoarse.

Murtagh didn't immediately respond, instead favoring her with an assessing gaze. Mariel didn't like the way he was staring at her – like she might transform into a rabid beast at any moment. She was about to voice as much when Murtagh opened his mouth to speak.

"You don't remember…do you?"

"Remember what?" Mariel snapped, still on the edges of insanity. This was one hell of a day. Murtagh paused again, warily watching Mariel. She sighed. "Sorry. This day's just…Okay, stop it!" Mariel exclaimed, aggravated by his distrustful gaze. "I'm in control. I'm not going to turn all rabid squirrel on you or anything."

Murtagh shot her a questioning look and then voiced another question. "In control of what?"

"I don't know." Mariel could feel the testiness edge back into her tone. She knew she should be grateful to him for healing her, but her mind wasn't exactly working at peak condition.

"I think I deserve an explanation," Murtagh replied, his tone just as testy, despite trying to rein it in. He motioned towards deep gashes that had been raked into his chest, ripping through his leather and chain armor alike. Fresh blood adorned the mail and Mariel flinched at the sight. He had wasted whatever energy he could on healing her, and couldn't risk anymore for himself.

"I didn't do that," her voice came out as a scared whisper, afraid of his answer. Dead silence. Then, "did I?"

Murtagh neither nodded nor shook his head in affirmation. He continued to gaze at her assessingly, not sure what might push her over the edge.

"Not you," he finally answered, his words slow. "At least…I don't think intentionally." He frowned, his eyes snapping back up to lock onto her own. "You were different. You burned to the touch. Your nails…were claws. Your teeth were fangs and…your _eyes_," Murtagh repressed a shudder, remembering the violent, glowing things. Mariel shrunk back from his own eyes, frightened of the way they stared at her…so accusing.

A long silence ensued, with Mariel staring at anything _but _Murtagh – and fighting back sobs – while Murtagh stared at _only _Mariel. His eyes took in everything about her, from head to toe; memorizing each feature. Analyzing and comparing hers to that of a normal human girl her age.

She didn't compare nicely.

"How did it happen?"

Mariel knew without asking what he referred to. How did that creature get a hold of her?

"I don't…" she began, but stopped when she saw his wounds. She had to be honest with him. He deserved that much. Of course she herself wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but she had a better understanding than he did. "I'm not sure how, but when we were fighting…I felt it. Some strange energy coursing through me. It came in slowly at first, and I was too busy fighting you off to pay it much heed." Murtagh didn't look apologetic. "Then it just…took over," she finished lamely.

"Just like that?" he asked, eyes never leaving her own. "You've never felt it before?"

Even now Mariel could feel that great energy burning inside her, not even slightly spent. She considered telling him then, telling her about those two strange forces within her – the Man and the Power – but when she saw the fear in his eyes…the repulsion, she decided against it. That wouldn't gain her his trust. He'd only have confirmation that she _was _the genetic freak he made her out to be.

"I haven't," she lied, her voice steady, not giving away any of the emotions roiling inside her.

"Has it happened before?"

A long silence.

"No. It hasn't." Well, that part was true. It had never taken such complete control before.

"Are you sure you've never felt it before?"

"Yes," she answered again, feeling only slightly guilty at the lie. He had saved her life, but the instant she told him the truth…he would just as readily try to end it. She hadn't even told Galbatorix about it.

"Maybe it's just some weird form of battle rage?" Mariel proposed, trying to get Murtagh look _anywhere _but at her. "Bloodlust?" She attempted a nonchalant shrug.

"Maybe." He didn't sound overly convinced. "But if that was true, wouldn't you have felt it before?"

"Maybe I've just never been that determined," she said steadily, not missing a beat. He couldn't suspect her.

To her surprise, he let out a low chuckle, a smile curving its way onto his features. Mariel could only stare in shock; she'd _never _seen him show that much emotion. Well…that wasn't entirely true. She'd seen him get angry before. Very angry. But she'd never seen this – she'd never seen him happy.

"Well, that's true," he remarked, still smiling somewhat to himself. "You don't seem to try very hard at all."

It wasn't an insult. And that came as more of a shock to Mariel than almost the statement itself. What did he mean she 'didn't try'? Yes it was true she never gave her one-hundred percent, but that didn't mean she didn't _try, _did it?

_Maybe._

Mariel shook away the thought with a shrug of her shoulders.

"I don't really consider you much of competition."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "I beat you every time."

"As you said," she felt a smirk crawl onto her face. "I don't try very hard."

"But you get frustrated. You want to win…why don't you?" Mariel was surprised to find that he actually believed she _could _beat him. Then she saw the gashes ripped into his chest again.

She ignored his question and instead leaned towards him. Murtagh had to fight with his every instinct, which shouted at him to lean away from her. Or to run her through with his sword. But then he'd never know what she was. His not moving was for strictly educational purposes.

Mariel placed her still cold fingers into his deep cuts, disturbed at how perfectly they fit in there. She felt his pulse through the sticky blood on her fingers. She swallowed hard. _Had _she done this?

Her eyes flashed up to meet his again.

"Why did you heal me? I did this to you. I could have...I could have killed you."

Murtagh didn't answer, preferring to study her. He couldn't detect any of the animalistic fury which had attacked him. Then again, it did seem to arise unprovoked. He had just been trying to shake her back into consciousness when she'd attacked him. She had moved with inhuman speed – even more so than usual. The entirety of her eyes had been alight with a glowing violet; the always bore.

But not now. Now she seemed perfectly in control. But if she was…then what was she doing?

Mariel leaned in more rapidly towards Murtagh, curious at the energy that so brightly emanate from him. As she drew in even closer, the energy inside her seemed to flare in expectation, waiting for the magical bond to be strengthened. She could already feel it thrumming through his bleeding wounds, but it was muted. Almost as if the magical bond was leaking out of him too.

Now she was only a few inches from him. He still didn't flinch away and stared at her with resolute eyes. But she could see past the mask.

"You're frightened," she whispered, her voice came out more menacing than she'd intended.

Again, no answer.

She could already feel the magic pounding behind his skin, begging to be strengthened by her own. As she released some of her misgivings about the strange connection, she saw Murtagh grow even more frightened by her. Like she was just a match waiting to be lit. A match that would most assuredly set him on fire.

She stared into his eyes, and saw her own reflected in his. There was a faint glowing about them, which made _her _flinch back. Without acknowledging what she saw, Mariel covered her retreat by closing her eyes and summoning the magic inside her.

"Waíse heill," she murmured, and the magical warmth shot down her fingers, flying against his skin. The cuts slowly joined with each other to form perfect, flawless skin. But his magical aura wasn't replaced when his skin had been healed. It was something else…perhaps his own exhaustion?

"Better?" Mariel asked. Murtagh nodded in affirmation.

"Thanks."

As soon as Mariel moved away from him, he stood up, heading towards the door. Mariel frowned.

"Where are you going?" He stopped, but didn't turn around. Mariel continued, "What about practice?"

"I think we've done enough of that today," he answered before stalking off, desperate to be alone in the personal confines of his own mind.

**A/N: I hope you liked it! Please review – even one or two words is good enough for me(:**


	7. C6 A Misleading Truce

**A/N: Here's a Murtagh chappie! (they're my favorite) Hope you guys like it, if you do…review!**

**Endellion: Thanks so much! That means a lot to me(:**

**YouWon'tForgetMe: yeah, again sorry about the wait. I'm really trying to do better. (but school will always be school…)**

**Policin' Yer Grammar: Yep. Mariel's a regular smarty:)**

Chapter Six: A Misleading Truce

"Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another."

- Homer

"Dead."

Mariel was sprawled out on the floor, her sword having been knocked moment before from her hands. But she refused to give Murtagh any satisfaction of his victory and repressed the several choice oaths that bubbled up inside her, threatening to spew out. Instead, she pictured that one perfect moment where she had stabbed him clean through the leg – except this time, she imagined herself stabbing him through his heart. She knew that she'd made a promise, even if it was only to herself, to get on his good side, but right now that didn't matter. Something about him was completely, utterly infuriating – and it made her blood boil.

Mariel smiled sadistically up at him, narrowing her eyes menacingly; almost daring him to put out the pressure on his sword that would send it cutting cleanly through her neck. She was acutely aware that he still held Zar'roc pointedly, well, _pointed _at her throat. The red blade was cold to the touch, despite its outward exterior.

She allowed her eyes to travel up from the crimson blade, which almost seemed to have a liquid consistency swirling inside its depths. Her eyes stopped when she met Murtagh's own silver ones, and she was somewhat surprised to find that they weren't on his blade; they were on her. Mariel's taunting, burning gaze contrasted deeply against Murtagh's own frigid and apathetic one. Several moments of silence agonizingly crept by until he was forced to look away, not being able to bear her searing gaze for a moment more. She smirked victoriously.

"I cannot believe that _you _are Galbatorix's best," Murtagh remarked coldly as he lifted Zar'roc from the exposed skin of her neck.

"I cannot believe that _you _are my teacher." Mariel countered, without missing a beat. "Shouldn't you…oh, I don't know," she then pretended to search for her next word, "_teach_?"

Murtagh spared her a withering glance, and with that glance he saw that she hadn't yet pulled herself from the ground. She shot him a dangerous look, but made no move to get up.

"You aren't exactly an ideal pupil, I mean – look at you; you can't even get off the ground."

Mariel let out a mock sigh of regret and stealthily fingered the dagger at her belt. She could tell by analyzing his face that he hadn't noticed the movement. She had an idea forming in her mind, which formed along certain terms; win at any cost. The beast inside hummed with a maniacal glee at the thought of carrying out her plan.

"Sorry," she finally spoke, "but Galbatorix's best doesn't see why she should have to get up herself." Another pause and a feigned frown. "It seems more like something Galbatorix's _second _best should do."

For the slightest of moments, Mariel thought she caught a glimpse of an approving smirk twitch at his lips but then it was gone, before she'd had the chance to confirm her suspicions.

Without another word, Murtagh leaned down and grabbed at her, pulling her up by the arm. Even as he did so, Mariel used the hand that was free of his grasp, the one so subtly clasped about her dagger, to unsheathe it. Not wasting any time, Mariel plunged the blade deep into his chest. It wasn't anything fatal, but it was painful enough to sake her blood lust. That outraged fury at constant failure vibrated with pleasure, setting a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

Murtagh let out a choked cry of pain, mixed with the right amounts of surprise, as Mariel shoved him off her.

She walked several steps away from him, facing a nearby wall. She'd never noticed before, but the grey stones had an intricate swirling pattern about them.

"God, you are _so _gullible." Mariel turned on her heel so she could face him again. He'd managed to rip the dagger from his chest and blood poured onto the floor. She was vaguely concerned that it might permanently stain the stone. He placed his other hand on the wound, stemming the flow of blood. "Did you think me that pathetic?" she continued "That _lazy_?"

She came to a stop in front of Murtagh, careful to keep her shoes from coming into contact with his blood. She dropped to her knees, so as to meet him at eye level. She then placed a comforting hand on his arm, adopting a tone layered thick with sarcasm. "Does it hurt terribly?" Her eyes flashed menacingly up to meet his own. "To be honest with you…well, I would have expected better. I mean, taking into consideration how I'm such a lackluster student. You should have seen this move ages before it even entered my mind." Her smirk grew deeper as he winced painfully, muttering out the words that would knit his flesh back together.

_Humans are so weak_, the Beast supplied snidely to her. She had to agree on this one.

"If you ever so much as _glance _at me the wrong way again…" The muted fury in his voice took Mariel somewhat by surprise; she'd become accustomed to his customary apathetic mean. Now that some emotion was surfacing, she wasn't entirely sure how she would deal with a Murtagh who exposed his emotions, rather than burying them deep inside, festering, and waiting for them to explode.

_Well, maybe this _is _him exploding, _she mused thoughtfully to herself. Never the less, she decided to push him further, responding with her customary sardonic tones.

"Aww…looks like somebody can't crack it as a big, bad warrior." She let out a sympathetic glance in his direction. She enjoyed infuriating her; this way she could let out some of her own pent up anger – and this time, she didn't need to strike out physically.

"You are _deranged_," he shot back furiously, getting to his feet. An ironic smile twisted its way onto Mariel's features.

"You and me both, dear."

"_Get up_," he snarled contemptuously. Mariel shot up almost instantaneously at his words. She was pleased to see that her swift movements still took him by surprise, even if it was muted by his fury.

"See how hard that was?" She taunted, leaning in until she was mere inches from his face. "I _really _could have used your help." She _enjoyed _this; putting Murtagh on edge. She could hardly believe that goading him hadn't occurred to her earlier. It was nearly as satisfying as stabbing him – and this way she didn't need to be afraid of getting carried away. And besides, it was a nice reminder for her to see that he actually did feel…that he _could _get angry. And she was going to push him as far as she could.

Yes, it was quite likely that he would hate her now more than ever – especially considering they had come to somewhat of an understanding when last they'd met – but she held a hope for a different future; a more realistic one. Perhaps if she constantly assaulted him, then he would let down those emotional barries and show any measure of emotion – not just anger – on a more regular basis. Going through life as cold and hard as he did could very likely lead to his undoing. He needed to trust in his comrades on the battle field, not be afraid they'd stab him the instant his back was turned. If she could just get him to _feel _more, then maybe he'd do the rest on his own. Of course, _she _wasn't going to be one of those comrades he'd trust in, but she wasn't about to lose any sleep over that.

Without warning, Murtagh swung his sword out with lightning-like alacrity, tearing Mariel from her thoughts. She barely managed to dodge out of its way, but didn't do so unscathed. A long gash ripped its way through her flesh, starting from the middle of her abdomen and stretching all the way to her right hip, growing increasingly deeper from whence it began. It oozed blood and Mariel winced at the blow.

Fury welled up inside her as she realized what his intended target had been; her heart. Before she could voice this injustice, he shot his sword out again, creating a musical, if not deadly, note as it swung towards her.

Mariel barely reacted fast enough, ducking below the swords radius and then dancing away. Her violet eyes flicked assessingly about the room, desperate to catch a glimpse of where her sword had fallen from their previous battle.

Perhaps she _had _pushed him too far.

Her eyes snagged on the glittering metal of her blade as the sun glinted off it from beneath the open window of where it lay. She tried to move towards it, but Murtagh must have sensed her intentions and swiftly moved in her way, blocking any immediate access.

Just as Mariel made a go at getting past him, he jerked his blade out again, aiming to incapacitate her legs. She just managed to hop up in time, avoiding the entirety of the blow.

Time seemed to slow as Mariel took in the situation about her. There was no possible way for her to reach Laeranír, her sword, in time to win the battle, and her one remaining dagger would only prove useless against his massive sword. She flicked her gaze back to his own and then she made her decision.

Just as Murtagh brought Zar'roc up again, intent on landing a critical blow, Mariel struck out in a swift jab at the better hand – his right one – that wielded his crimson blade. It hadn't had enough impact to send Zar'roc clattering to the floor, but it took him by surprise, interrupting his swing.

In that small opening, Mariel launched herself at him with a fierce scream tearing from her throat. She sent Murtagh sprawling where she could not send his sword; to the ground. Before he could catch his bearing and have another swing out with his weapon, Mariel wrested it, this time successfully, from his grasp. It landed noisily to her left, just out of his reach.

Each of her knees was planted on either side of him and her forearm, which was propped up against Murtagh's collar bone, supported her weight. Her hair fanned out around his face, forming a dark-brown curtain about the pair.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he attempted to regain the air which had been so recently knocked from his lungs. Mariel surveyed him victoriously and her fingers twitched towards the remaining dagger at her waist. She unsheathed it in a moment, never taking her eyes from his. She pointed it meaningfully at the skin of his throat, right beneath his jaw.

"Dead," she panted out triumphantly. It took every last ounce of her strength and willpower to hold her limbs in position and not give out, collapsing on him from both sheer exhaustion and blood loss.

The wound on her side was still bleeding profusely and the painful throbbing it gave off reminded her that she should heal it before it became too unmanageable. A fine layer of sweat worked its way onto her brow and the air of her lungs came in short, quick and jagged gasps.

Murtagh was staring at her, with his own victorious glint in his eyes. She frowned slightly, confused by that look.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing – as best as one can when being pinned to the ground – towards her wound.

She nodded, unable to find her voice, and shifted slightly, so as to allow him proper movement. He reached up towards her right hip, placing his hand on the gushing wound. That familiar surge of magic coursed through her and the touch sent chills of its own, of a different kind, through her.

"Waíse heill," he murmured, not taking his eyes from hers. Instantly the pain vanished, and her skin grew back together. But for some reason Mariel's heart was still pounding profusely as she looked down at him. She was met by his own intense gaze. He slowly brushed his thumb against the now clean skin of her waist, as if contemplating something. That simple touch sent tremors through her which, try as she might, she couldn't shake off. His gaze flicked down towards where his hand was, and her bare skin there, and then back up to her eyes. He repeated the motion once more, his thumb lightly touching her exposed skin, and then he returned his arm to its previous position.

A few seconds passed before Mariel remembered what had happened. That's when her previous fury came flooding back to her, sending a burning red to her cheeks, as she remembered his attack.

"What the hell was that about? You attacked me!" she snapped out viciously, still trying to regain her breath from both the attack and Murtagh's touch.

He seemed to find her question highly amusing, which merely fed more to her anger. His amusement was the most emotion he'd shown in the entirety of her knowing him. This should have made her pleased that her goal had been achieved before she'd rightly put any effort into it, but it didn't. She narrowed her eyes at him wishing now, more than ever, that looks could kill.

"It worked," he said smugly, "you finally managed a win."

A long silence followed as Mariel attempted to process his words. "_Excuse me?_"

Mariel analyzed Murtagh deeply with her piercing gaze. His own eyes were glancing up at her amusedly. Another smile twitched threateningly at his lips before he managed to iron it out. A sense of disappointment washed over Mariel and she realized how much she'd wanted to see him smile.

"You won," he purposefully slowed his speech to ridiculous levels, which served to infuriate Mariel further. She could only manage to gape at him, rendered utterly speechless at this complete one-eighty in character. Some backwards part of her mind supplied that this was the second time the two had been atop each other in the past weeks. She quickly squashed the traitorous thought away.

"You tried to kill me!" she quickly found her outrage again. "You aimed at my heart!" Her face grew flushed with anger once more.

"You stabbed me," he countered. "Twice now." That maddening humor had returned. His eyes were shining with amusement as Mariel could only gawk at this drastic behavioral change. She was quite sure she preferred the unsociable and taciturn version of him – at least _he'd_ made more sense.

She _had _stabbed him twice. By any normal standards, he should loathe her, and rightfully so. By her expression it was made quite obvious to him that this explanation wasn't going to cut it.

He sighed, but this time the exasperation stemmed from her inability to properly comprehend him. "I figured that since you'd gotten so angry earlier today – so angry that you stabbed me – that you'd manage in a proper win if I retaliated accordingly." Her murderous gaze didn't lessen one bit. "I knew you'd see the move coming before anything happened."

"Oh, really?" Mariel challenged, reaching for the dagger she'd only just returned to its sheath. Before her fingers had even brushed against its hilt, Murtagh had grabbed a hold of her arms and rolled himself over her, keeping her down; their roles had been reversed. Her arms were pinned on either side of her head and she struggled, futilely, to break his grasp.

Surprisingly, he didn't seem the least bit angry. That ridiculous humor was still there and he grinned mischievously down at her.

"You really are a violent little thing, aren't you?" Mariel could hear the smile in his voice, even if none would yet grace his features. She realized that, once again, she yearned to see a smile light up his face. This insight came as a jolting shock to her. When had she come to care so much?

Even though he'd managed to cut through most of her rage, she wasn't going to let it show to him.

"Quite," she shot from beneath him, glaring venomously into his silver eyes. Something about them…they weren't right. A slight frown found itself upon her brow as she continued to stare into their mesmerizing depths. Shouldn't they be…green?

Yes, she remembered distinctly now; one green, and one blue. Yes, there were tiny flecks of blue deep in his eyes, if you looked deeply enough, but collectively they still clung to their grey hue. And that meant…

Mariel's thoughts were interrupted as she realized just how close they really were. She'd been this same distance from him in the past, take a few inches, but she'd never felt this way before. Something about the shape of his lips intrigued her, drawing her closer to him. That customary burning bond of magic coursed between the two, scorching her skin wherever his touched her own. She felt that familiar intoxicating power swell within her, threatening to burst.

All she had to do was lean up a few more inches and…_no. _She _hated _him! What was she thinking? And he hated her…or did he? He hadn't drawn away either. He seemed to be equally struggling with their sudden intimacy; it was intoxicating. Indecision was flickering back and forth between Mariel's torn and roiling thoughts. But before she could make a decision, Murtagh made it for the both of them. He pulled away from her, rising to his proper height. He proffered his hand, gesturing for her to take it.

"Truce?"

Mariel analyzed the proffered hand skeptically. Surely he had to be wary of this action. She had, after all, stabbed him the last time he'd done so. Her gaze trailed from his hand up towards his own and, once more, his piercing silver eyes shot into her. It felt like a burst of frigid water, and she wondered what exactly it was about her that had intrigued him so.

Mariel reached out apprehensively and clasped his hand, allowing him to pull her off of the floor. All the while, she never took her eyes from his.

They weren't right. They were too…well, not innocent but…pure. They didn't have that sadistic light searing through – like they did in her visions. And then of course, there was the fact that their color didn't match either.

"You're doing it again."

Murtagh's voice pulled her out of her twisting thoughts, ripping her from whichever path it had been taking her down. For a few seconds she did nothing but stare at him, and then she managed to regain her composure.

"Doing what again?" She feigned ignorance – it was better than the alternative; telling him she had crazy visions. Then another thought struck her, almost as shocking as the first revelation; he hadn't given her those unnerving, both frightened and curious, glances at all that practice. That alone should have set a few alarms off in her head, but she was preoccupied with leading Murtagh off her trail.

"Staring at me – but," he hesitated and then his electric eyes glanced towards her again, sending a chill up her spine, "but not like all the other girls. Almost as if…" he trailed off and then shook away the frown that had found its way onto his features.

Mariel flushed at this statement; not like other girls? She hoped that her burning cheeks didn't give her away as she remembered their proximity just a few moments before. She was fairly sure that qualified as 'other girls'. If his looks were anything to go by, then he probably had his own cult of crazed girls who flocked about him if he ever stepped out in public. Mariel smiled slightly at the thought; at least she didn't have to deal with that. Being kept in secrets did have _some_ benefits.

"It's not normal." Murtagh finally concluded, once more breaking Mariel out of her reverie.

It didn't come out cruelly – which surprised Mariel even further. If he'd said the same thing earlier, even an hour ago, she would have guessed it to have been biting and vindictive.

"I'm not sure I follow…" she replied, somewhat stiffly. She refused to meet his eyes.

"But you _do _know something." The amused tone had crept back in, tempting Mariel to look over at him.

With a few seconds of further deliberation, she decided that the pattern on the wall before her was much too captivating to look away from.

"You can tell me," he whispered. Mariel instantly stiffened as she felt his breath upon her neck. She took an uneasy step away from him.

For a moment she considered complete denial, but she still remembered all she'd put him through; stabbing him twice, practically killing him by ripping every last molecule of oxygen from his lungs, and then clawing at him. And after all that, he'd still offered her a hand up. She sighed, resignedly; he had said _truce_, after all. She owed him that much.

"Fine. I was…" she took in a steadying breath, preparing herself for the crazy looks to come back. She'd only just gotten used to him not running her through with his murderous, and simultaneously curious, glares. "looking at your eyes."

Murtagh repressed a laugh at this. "_Really_ – you can do better than that. At least try making your lie believable. No one would believe you're as weak-willed as the other girls who infest this god forsaken city."

"I was!" Mariel protested, and then clarified for him, "they're different. You see…I've seen you before. In a vision – inside my head. But it wasn't you. Your eyes were different." She finally managed to tear her eyes from the wall, daring to meet his own. He was looking at her bemusedly, trying to understand what she'd said. "One was blue. The other was green. He looked just like you – but he…" Mariel cut herself off, refusing to describe what Murtagh's doppelganger had been doing.

"He…?" Murtagh continued for her. When it was clear she wasn't going to respond he prodded again. "He what?"

"His eyes were different. That's all."

She could tell by those features in question, and the set of his face, that he didn't quite believe her. None the less, he let it drop.

"So…he looked like me?" Murtagh questioned again after a few moments had passed.

"Exactly like you. He _was _you." Mariel paused, and then corrected herself. "Or so I thought."

Murtagh narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then a thought struck him. "My sword," he gestured towards the ground, where the weapon in question still lay. "Did he wield it?"

"Yes," Mariel answered slowly, studying his face. If this news meant anything, he didn't let it show. He only nodded slightly, almost as if it confirmed a growing suspicion.

"Does that mean anything to you?" she asked.

He shrugged, turning his eyes back to scrutinize her. "Did you see anything else?"

Mariel's throat tightened. She still felt uncomfortable discussing this in front of him. Murtagh seemed to sense her discomfort, and switched tactics.

"When did you see it?"

"What do you mean?" she asked uneasily.

"What triggered it?"

Her eyes flashed back towards where Zar'roc was, and then back to Murtagh in an instant. She hadn't meant to give him an answer, but her flickering gaze had been enough.

"Zar'roc," he concluded.

There was no sense in denying it now. "Yes."

"What else did you see?"

"You – _him_," Mariel corrected herself, "using it." She concluded evasively.

"Against?" he asked patiently.

Her vision snapped back onto him, almost of its own accord. "Innocents," she breathed, her voice came out more menacingly than she'd intended.

"People then?" he concluded dryly. An apathetic note had crept back into his tone, which wasn't lost on Mariel.

"How old are you?" Mariel's penetrating stare never wavered. The smile that curved onto his face was humorless, and not the one she'd been previously hoping for.

"They were dragons then?" His voice was biting, as if he masked a great wound from her.

"Yes. People too – and children."

Murtagh flinched at her words, averting his gaze. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn she saw a flicker of emotion in those suddenly frigid eyes; pain. But then he blinked and it, along with the water glazing over his eyes, was gone.

She waited what she deemed was an appropriate amount of time and then voiced her own question. "You know who it was?"

"I've an idea," he confirmed, and already she could hear what she now assumed was false humor, coming back into his voice. He didn't elaborate further.

"Ah." Mariel nodded, never taking her contemplating eyes from him. She had gained her own understanding from his behavior. "I'll leave you to yourself, then." She paused, "and your dragon, naturally."

He nodded gratefully at her, and she turned from him, stalking across the room as she snatched up her weapons. She suddenly knew why he'd had such an abrupt character change; he wanted information.

She sheathed her weapons, and pulled her mask from where she'd hidden it on her armor. When she turned back around, Murtagh was gone.

She smiled bitterly to herself as she wound the mask swiftly about her face, careful to leave her mouth exposed, as always. Well, he may have gotten information from her, but she'd gotten a truce. It didn't matter whether or not he'd meant it, he was far too proud to openly renounce it now, and admit he'd been playing with her. And, if he wanted any more information, then he'd have to keep playing nice – this suited Mariel just fine. After all, who said the information she gave him had to be true?

With that parting thought, Mariel walked from the room, a dangerous smile playing about her lips.


	8. C7 Battle Preparations

**A/N: Sorry it's been so incredibly long! What can I say? Real life takes priority. Crossing fingers the next update won't be so long:/**

Chapter Seven: Battle Preparations

"Politics is war carried out without bloodshed, while war is politics carried out with bloodshed."

- Mao Zedong

The slight smattering of rain as it pelted onto the taught tent canvas woke Eragon from his dreamless sleep. It was relaxing, that sound, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to stay listening to the rhythmic pattern. To have his jumping nerves relax as the rain washed away any thought…feeling…memory.

And for a while, he did just that. Figuring that the longer he lay there, unmoving, the further he would get from his bleak reality. Clarity began to slowly flow back into him, and his dulled senses grew clear once more.

Eragon started slightly as he felt a sharp pain burning from his wrist. His closed eyes frowned slightly, and he tried to recall having damaged it – perhaps he was merely imagining it? For all he knew, it was just the itching curiosity to open his eyes. But he didn't want that terrible truth to find a way of setting back in. Reality could batter at the walls of his mental resolve all it wanted, yet he wouldn't feel any inclination to permit an entrance: it wasn't getting in any time soon.

But, inevitably, it did; first brushing against his psyche in a calm whisper. It whispered temptingly to him – that all he had to do was open his eyes. It was a simple gesture, yet Eragon fought against it, none the less.

Several more seconds of persuasion passed before Eragon obeyed the vague muttering in his mind. Then, the instant his eyes fluttered open, reality came rushing in. It grabbed fiercely at him, refusing to relinquish its new found prize.

Releasing a pent up groan of frustration, he flexed his fingers and brought that throbbing wrist in question up to his eyes for further inspection. Vivid purple bruises were splattered across the pigments of his flesh.

Strange he didn't remember having acquired such a choice discoloration. Surely he would have remembered getting it…

_Eragon._

He blinked in response, frowning somewhat. Last he knew, reality wasn't in any habit of talking. He supposed it would be unwise to ignore such a powerful being this early in the day, especially since it had gone to all the trouble of waking him.

_Yes? _Eragon noted a tone of agitation in his thought. The sentient being noticed it also.

_Eragon! _It shouted back, obviously much more agitated than he.

It took Eragon several more moments for the pieces to fall into place and the final shrouds of grogginess to fade away.

Nasuada – reality was Nasuada. Eragon couldn't help but feel slightly put out at this; he would have much preferred carrying on a conversation with his imagination than a real flesh-and-bone being.

Eragon let out a groan and it took him several more moments to realize that Nasuada couldn't hear him. He sighed, roughly pushing his hair back, and rubbing his exhaustion from his eyes.

_Yes?_

_At last, the great Rider awakes. Has anyone ever told you that you have the ears of stone?_

Eragon smiled slightly to himself, remembering how both Saphira and Orik had once told him that almost exact phrase. Without waiting for an answer, Nasuada continued on.

_Meet me in my tent. I'll give you half an hour; I've waited long enough._

She severed their mind connection before Eragon had proper time for a response. He concluded that this was most likely done so as to prevent his protestation. Grudgingly he admitted that was good logic on her part.

His eyes went back to his injured wrist and with a jolt of surprise, he realized it wasn't responding properly; it had been sprained. Suppressing a groan of frustration, he muttered the healing words which instantly began to knit his flesh back together, blue sparks of magic shooting from the tips of his fingers. Instantly, the pain pulsating from his wrist evaporated, and his skin returned to its normal hue.

But the rest of his body still ached: every muscle, ligament – and he swore even his _nails _hurt – and his head was throbbing, pounding against every corner of his skull, seemingly desperate to hew it in pieces. He'd spent yesterday, and all of the weeks previous, helping the Varden prepare for departure from Feinster, and then onward to Belatona. That had entailed the back-breaking labor of hefting various pieces of siege-equipment from one side of the fortress to the other, as well as directing the traffic of both supplies and soldiers…and every menial task from delivering work orders to ripening fruit; given him by any and all passersby he had the misfortune to chance upon. It was that more than anything that drove him to rendering himself invisible – Saphira could hardly bare him in addition to her own workloads – and he only lifted the spell when communication became a necessity.

More often than not, he and Saphira were transporting every last pound of weapons, food and other various items, whether by magic, on Eragon's part, or brute force, on Saphira's part.

This was mostly due to the fact that a strong majority of the soldiers were ordered into a fierce regimen of training and practice, as much as was possible, before laying siege to Belatona. Many of the weak and paltry magicians which were sewn into the ranks of the Varden's soldiers were trained by a single member of the Du Vrangr Gata on how to improve their spells, and lessen their energy consumption.

Those remaining of the Varden, the ones who did not fight, were either slaving away at weaponry, cooking, or crafting suitable armor for their soldiers. The dwarves, holding true to Orik's promise, had been secretly mining under the supports of Belatona's wall, preparing it for collapse when the moment would undoubtedly arise. Many of the elves assigned as Eragon's personal guard busied themselves with painstakingly training any courageous soldiers who fell into the trap of volunteering to that dreaded task. It was no secret that the elves enjoyed exercising their superior strength over the weaker humans, and were often ruthless in doing so. Only a handful of brave men, likely not in full grasp of their wits, subjected themselves to that torture. Eragon was proud to say that Roran was one of them.

The only ones who didn't seem to be drudging away were the Du Vrangr Gata. Nasuada was reluctant to entrust them with any tasks that had been deemed too important, seeing as they'd already had two spies in their midst. But nor could she completely deny use of their labor – both for fear of outraging the group, and due to how much labor was actually needed.

Because of this they'd been entrusted with various traffic directing – countless hours were saved by the swift delivery of a magically guided note to its hopelessly lost correspondent – or helping speed up the armor and weapon-smithing processes with the slight spurt of magic here or there. If any of the magicians grew enough of a spine to complain, they were swiftly assigned the tedious job of magically preserving each and every piece of food they came across; there had been no complaints as of late.

Everything that needed to be done had been divvied out. Eragon couldn't think of anything else that Nasuada might need him for, and his body wasn't overly excited to contemplate at whichever task she had left to him. Judging by the sound of her mental voice it was important – and important usually entailed exerting copious amounts of energy and time.

_Saphira? _Eragon called out, remembering to keep his mental call soft. He did not want to wake Saphira on the off chance that she was still asleep. On a second glance at the young dawn, he realized 'off chance' was too generous a term; it was very likely she was catching up on much needed sleep. And besides, he'd made the mistake of waking her once before and was in no mood to face her wrath again. It was painful, to say the least…and the smell wasn't overly pleasant either.

After receiving no immediate answer, he gently brushed his mind against hers in an attempt to determine her state of consciousness.

She was asleep.

Several seconds later Eragon let out a sigh of relief, grateful that his mental probing hadn't woken her. Well, that was one, and perhaps the only, good thing to have happened to him that morning.

Glancing out towards the sky again, and observing the rising sun, he realized morning was too loose of a term.

"You don't know how lucky you are," he whispered to the uninhabited air around him, in the vague hopes that Saphira could hear him, and pulled on a fresh pair of trousers.

Then a thought struck him. Nasuada couldn't be calling him for anything too important, or she would have woken Saphira too. Well…unless news of Saphira's wrath had reached her as well. Eragon grimaced at the memory. He had only just managed to get rid of the smell of ash and soot – which had followed him for an entire week afterwards – from his skin. It wasn't anything he planned on repeating in the near future.

The late autumn breeze tingled coldly against Eragon's face as he stepped out of his tent, letting the flap drop behind him. He took in a deep breath of the fresh, crisp air, letting its chill burn through his lungs. He then walked off in the direction he remembered Nasuada's tent to be.

Throughout the camp, even in dawn's early light, Eragon could see that preparations were still being made, long through the night and into the morning.

There was the dim hammering as various blocks of metal were being forged into an assortment of weapons that would no doubt save the life of the soldier who wielded it. Then there was also the faint smell of freshly baked foods emanating from the southern direction of the fortress – and the smoke rising above the tents to confirm Eragon's suspicions.

Many of the men glanced at him with blank, part awake and partly asleep, deadened eyes while others grimly nodded their deference to him. He nodded in return, giving them a not entirely heartfelt smile. There was still a slight smattering of dew, which encrusted the half-dead grass he trod over, and the sludge of melted snow sloshed messily against his boots. His eyes were already drooping from the rhythmic rise and fall of his gait when a gruff voice called out to him.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!"

He jerked his head up; unaware it had been nodding off as he walked. He really needed to get some sleep. Apparently the two hours from earlier this morning weren't likely to cut it.

Quickly finding the speaker, a common foot soldier of the Varden, he raised a hand in salute. Almost the instant he'd raised his arm, it was back down at his side. He was by no means, a morning person.

"Good morning!" he responded nonetheless, albeit somewhat blearily. He subtly coughed, with the intent of clearing his groggy voice. He hoped the journey wasn't much further, and that he would reach there in good time, before any further awkward greetings were to be made.

"If you can call this messy, ill-begotten excuse of a time to be allowed such a fine title."

Eragon whirled around at the voice, a smile already crawling onto his features. He adopted a mock questioning tone.

"And if I do?"

Roran smiled and gestured towards the fortress's palisade. "Then you're more than welcome to bang your head against that fine wall over yonder, come back, and tell me your thoughts then…mayhaps they'll have changed?"

Eragon laughed, closing the distance between the two, his boots squelching in the mud. It was a rather sickening sound.

Roran reached out, clasping his younger cousin firmly by the arm in greeting.

"So what does one of the Varden's finest –" Eragon was cut off by the serious look in his cousin's eyes. He frowned, narrowing his eyes curiously, scrutinizing his suddenly stormy expression.

"Has something happened?"

Roran nodded curtly, his previous good humor having vanished entirely. "Yes. Nasuada has sent for you."

"Yes. I've heard…I was just on my way to her." Eragon replied cautiously, aware that this wasn't the news which so clearly was upsetting his older cousin.

"Good," Roran smiled tightly. "She sent me to fetch you – you know, in case you decided to go rogue and sleep a couple extra hours. I wouldn't blame you," he added, forcing some of that previous good humor back into his tone. "Follow me."

Eragon followed after him wordlessly, his curiosity silently raging. Patience had never been his strongest of traits, and being around Roran only seemed to exacerbate it.

_Why has Nasuada called for me so early? She was, after all, the one encouraging me to get some rest. What could this meeting possibly be about? And why is _Roran_, of all people, escorting me to her…is he somehow involved in all of this?...how does he know before I do?_

He wished now more than ever that Saphira was awake to give him some perspective on the mystery. Nevertheless, he managed to console himself on the thought that all would be revealed within the hour – and, barring that, they had better have one hell of a good excuse for waking him.

In a matter of slow, mud-soaked and painful minutes, they had arrived at Nasuada's tent.

_She had better have a good reason for this_, Eragon thought exasperatedly to himself. He hoped that this morning – more dawn, really – call wasn't to become something of habit; he doubted his eye circles could get any worse.

"Ah," Nasuada clapped her hands together upon seeing their arrival, "you're both here." She motioned with a wave of her hands to her guards, sending them away. No doubt off join the guards watching her entrance.

Apparently whatever she was going to expose would be dangerous gossip if heard by the wrong ears.

"What's going on?" Eragon asked, somewhat impatient, as he stared at a dark stain in the tent wall.

"I've called you here as a witness."

His assessing eyes locked back onto Nasuada, gaze ever curious.

"Witness?" He repeated, raising an eyebrow. "For what?" He looked from Nasuada to Roran, and then to Orrin – who he'd only now just noticed – and then to the parchment given center stage of her usually cluttered desk. Something strange was definitely going on.

A long silence followed. Eragon broke it.

"You are going to tell me, aren't you?"

"Yes," she sighed, resting her face back in her hands, where she rubbed exasperated circles back and forth in her forehead. "As you are undoubtedly aware of, the siege of Belatona is nearing."

Eragon nodded, "Yes. We leave within the week." It was said as a statement, though the questioning tone was undoubtedly there; confirming whether or not this was still a true fact. Nasuada lifted her head up, meeting his inquisitive eyes with her own fierce ones.

She nodded swiftly. Impatiently. Eragon narrowed his eyes again; concentrating on the figure of his Queen, willing her to spit out whatever she'd called him there for.

"There is a high probability that we won't survive." She took a hard gulp and then plunged forward. "That I won't." He could still detect the slight quaver in her voice as she said it, despite the brave face she plastered over her own. She was afraid.

"Don't say that," Eragon was surprised by the passion in his voice. "Evil has triumphed over good for an age…but the darkness will not endure. It cannot."

The smile she gave him was bittersweet, and resigned. Like she was the parent and he the child stubbornly clinging to the fairytales of youth.

"Be that as it may, we must prepare for the worst." She motioned towards the parchment. Eragon made out several signatures already there…and the blank space for just one more. "In the event that I fall in battle, it seems reasonable that I have named my heir…to the throne of the Varden." Eragon met her stern eyes with his, widened by shock. "I have chosen Roran to succeed me."

"You cannot –" he began, before being swiftly cut through by Nasuada's terse voice.

"It's a simple formality, Eragon. One I wouldn't like the Council to be involved in. The gods above know what a mess they would make of this, and I shudder to imagine the puppet of a replacement _they _would have chosen." Lifting up the crisp, yellowed paper, she proffered it to him.

It took a few more seconds before he, hesitatingly, reached out towards it. He quickly skimmed the article, and then looked back up to her. "Why do you need me? As in…_me_… specifically?"

"It's more than likely the Council will try to ram their own prodigy onto the throne, despite any intentions I would make clear. They won't be capable of such a thing if you, the Varden's famed dragon Rider, are backing my candidate. Besides, the people love Roran. He will have their hearts."

"Wouldn't Eragon be the more obvious choice?" Roran asked stiffly; obviously still uncomfortable at the new twist in his fate.

_He never wanted any of this either; he wanted to be a simple farm boy, same as me, _Eragon thought bitterly, glancing over towards his cousin. There was a strange glint in his brown eyes as he realized he shared more in common with his one-time brother than he'd once thought. _Funny how Fate's decided to toy with our family; me…Murtagh…and now you too, Roran._

The silence of Roran's posed question still dominated over the room, pitching them into an awkward quiet. Orrin's breath caught, reminding Eragon that the man who had remained silent, and almost forgotten, for the entirety of the meeting was still physically there. Nasuada gazed warily, almost assessingly, at Eragon, as if waiting for the tempest to break through the storm. As if she had to traverse a bed of hot coals, and was searching for the quickest and least painful route.

Finally, slowly, she answered.

"Eragon has enough responsibilities to look after. I can hardly in good conscience appoint a leader to the Varden who has given oaths of fealty to nearly every race on Alagaësia."

Eragon noted with a flare of resentment, that her tone had grown reprimanding.

_Who is she to judge me? I've been chased to the edge of a cliff in every one of those situations, given the choice of jumping myself, or being pushed._

Her eyes swept from Roran back onto him, and he found a dangerous glint there. Her expression darkened as she took in his black one. He only vaguely wondered if his face betrayed the traitorous thoughts that roiled beneath the surface.

"They will come to collect one day, Eragon. And the price they demand may be higher than you remember agreeing to."

Involuntarily, his mind's eye flashed to the Menoa tree, back in the woods of Du Weldenvarden, and that open-ended promise he'd made her. He felt a chill sweep through him, and the back of his neck crawled under Nasuada's penetrating gaze. A deep part of him resented her for having guessed at his fears. How had she known?

A cough in the back of the room – from Orrin – snapped Eragon out of his reverie.

"I do believe we have a document to be signed and I, for one, have other matters to attend to," Orrin continued, sounding just as exhausted as Eragon felt. "If we could carry on, it would be much appreciated."

Grabbing the proffered quill, Eragon realized why Nasuada had given him that strange, almost accusing, glare. There was another reason this leadership wasn't being offered him; too much power – the hidden meaning behind _enough responsibilities. _She feared him becoming corrupted.

_How could she think that? After all I've done, after all I've faced…_ A burning wave of anger swept through his veins and for a second – however slight it was – he contemplated refusing her.

_Why should Roran have to be King? He clearly doesn't want to – and what sort of king would that make him? …an unfit one. But me? My life is already changed. If anyone should rule the Varden, _I_ am the most logical choice. I just want for Roran what he himself wants – yes, that's it. Something simple._

Another flare of bitterness jolted through Eragon, but he distastefully repressed it, leaving only the shaking of his hand to betray his emotions. He was the better choice; the Varden knew it, he knew it, Roran knew it…and Nasuada knew it too.

Swallowing this sudden surge of resentment, Eragon placed the parchment back onto the desk, before he could completely rebel against the task, and scrawled his name out in a deadly, binding, black ink. As he slid the parchment back to his queen, he couldn't help but wonder if he might live to regret this day.

**A/N**

**BuddhaNecklace: Thanks! I plan on it (:**

**Maegmel: Well, it's getting there. Got a lot more stuff to pack in.**

**AlexianStarLine: Why, thank you!**

**bubbletea4me: Thanks(:**

**Vassili: Yup! Sorry I'm so bad at updating though…**

**KAIDANALENKOISASEXYBEAST: Haha, here you go. I wrote more. Do enjoy (:**

**Policin' Yer Grammar: I know right! I'm so proud of her. It probs won't happen again anytime soon though. She doesn't enjoy her training…at least, not with him anyway.**

**YouWon'tForgetMe: Haha yes they did. I think they're happening **_**way **_**too soon though. I get overly impatient sometimes…but good things come to those who wait..haha. And I hope I'll be updating more regularly, too…**

**Thanks for all the reviews guys, again sorry it was **_**sooo **_**late! I'm off to write the next chappie. Virtual cookies to those who review!**


	9. C8 Of Predators and Prey

Chapter Eight: Of Predators and Prey

"Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong." -Winston Churchill

There was a soft wind playfully tugging at Murtagh's hair as he stopped atop a low hillock and frowned up at the shrouded sun, the fiery light it normally shed was blocked by relentless and monotonous grey clouds, making it barely discernible from the rest of the sky.

Everything around him was still and quiet, not even the distant chirping of birds could be heard to ease the silence. There was no sound but the wind, cool and weightless as it teased its way about him.

At a first glance, or even under the study of an unpracticed set of eyes, it would seem as though he'd stopped at an empty landscape, with naught but dry flattened grass at his feet. But further on, Murtagh's own adept eyes could pick out the familiar greyish-brown smudge on the horizon; the telltale sign of a forest's edge. They were in a meadow of sorts – lacking the picturesque green grass, bright flowers, and shining sun.

This late in the year the soft, once vibrant grass had dried up to a crisp, dull yellow. Not even the fallen leaves could alleviate the unattractive, dismal scene before him; they'd all fallen, rotted, and deteriorated into the brown earth some weeks previous. The squelching of mud beneath his shoe was evidence enough to that fact. Murtagh grimaced, angrily ripping his boot up from the clinging earth, grey eyes searching for a dry spot to put them down in.

"Damn rain," he muttered bitterly, slamming his dirt encrusted boot back into the filth after having found no suitable place to stand on. The motion sent mud flying up onto his leather pants, smattering their black hue with an unwelcome brown one.

_So much for autumn,_ he thought bitterly, _it had lasted for what – a month?_

"It's not so bad."

Murtagh's breath caught in his throat as a cool voice sounded from behind him, sending his heart pounding. Luckily he managed to catch himself before jumping out of his skin. A trained warrior should never have been taken off guard so easily. But he had. Worse, her presence had slipped his mind entirely, and he'd allowed his body to slip into the relaxation it only would when he was alone.

"You like dead things, don't you?" he asked coolly, staring on ahead at that faint smudge in the distance, the clouds, the dead ground – whatever, as long as it wasn't her.

"I appreciate life in all stages. _Life_; it isn't dead," she said strangely, quietly, "it's just sleeping." His eyes flicked over to his strange companion. She'd dropped to her knees, fingers running through the dry, _dead_ grass. He sighed. This wasn't an argument worth having, no doubt that would come soon enough.

"Fine. Whatever suits you, it matters not to me," he replied dismissively.

"I think it does," she shot back in that eerie, musical voice of hers. He froze her gaze with a cold, silencing glance of his own.

"It doesn't." She chose to ignore him.

It was early in the morning, or at least it had been when they'd left, but now it was closer to mid-afternoon. Had it been spring there would have been a light smattering of dew upon the grass, but autumn found its only embellishment that of dirt and rot.

For training that day, he had decided against the usual, readily growing monotonous, routine of dueling in favor of physical training – the sort where _she_ would train and he would assess her, conveniently escaping any physical exertion of his own. Unfortunately, the good mood that had put him in had evaporated ten minutes in due to her unending barrage of questions and his short patience. In a desperate attempt to be rid of her, he'd informed her they were to run the rest of the way there and since she didn't know the way she would have to follow at the safe, and inaudible, distance of fifteen feet. He had meant to lose her on the way through the winding path he'd chosen and the thick forestry that stubbornly prevented unobstructed vision.

"What's the plan?"

"Plan? It's nothing more than simple training." Murtagh frowned, once more finding himself perplexed by her strange way of speaking. This girl, if she was that even, was a mystery in a mystery, wrapped in a perplexing enigma. And he had every intention of figuring it out.

She sighed, rolling her eyes before answering. "I was simply wondering what you had in store for me today."

He looked at her chillingly, an expression she must have mistaken for confusion.

"No? Alright…" she frowned, feigning deep thought, "I didst have a wondering what thou would havest me do on this finest day in the hour of morn which nearest midday."

Murtagh sighed, agitation coloring his confusion. "I feel as though you are mocking me."

She giggled, clearly pleased with herself. "I wouldn't dream of it. Mocking you? – the famed ranger? I wouldn't have the cojones for it." He raised an eyebrow questioningly,

"Cojones?"

She gave him a quick glance, sighed, and then spoke, "Never mind. Sometimes I forget…"

He watched her unblinkingly, nearly opening his mouth to further question her, but stopped himself just in time. Before he confronted her he'd need to further study her, learn everything there was to know about Mariel, son of Maker knew who. In doing so he would have more evidence with which to challenge her when the time came and would be better able to back her into a corner.

For one, he needed to know how, and why, she could change from a chilling, mysterious, and inhuman being – a being that seemed almost older than the earth itself – to a…_girl_? A naïve, young girl. How could she laugh and make jokes, however unentertaining as they were, one moment and then make his very blood run cold in the next? He hated her in those moments, hated how she frightened him against his own will, hated how every hair on his body stood up whenever she was near – being the prey was not an experience Murtagh was accustomed to. And in the others, in the moments when she was nothing but a young girl, he couldn't help but resent her presence being forced upon him. She saw life as a happy, funny thing and was too simple-minded to see it was nothing more than a cruel twisted joke. He pitied, hated, and resented her all in equal measure.

"You'll be running," he stated brusquely, at long last giving an answer to her question.

"Running?"

"Running."

"That's it?" she pressed, an almost eager edge coloring her disbelieving tone. Murtagh looked over at her coldly, noting with annoyance the grace with which she walked, almost floating, as her feet barely pressed the wet earth beneath. He noticed with a flare of petty resentment that there was not even the slightest hint of mud on her boots.

"For now."

She quirked her brows, the unsettling eyes beneath settling on him. At first it hadn't taken long to get used to them. After all, eyes are eyes and it didn't much matter what color they were. But now…now that he'd seen the violet of her irises take over even the whites of her eyes – now that he'd seen them _glowing _as she attacked him, ripping at his flesh…Murtagh repressed a shudder and swiftly smoothed out his features. He had to bite back the order to put her mask back on and hide those awful eyes from sight.

He turned to where that faint dark smudge, which signified the edge of the woods, began and pointed toward them.

"You'll be running from there," he instructed. "And you will run the perimeter of the woods around this clearing. Any time you trip or change pace another lap will be added." He gestured towards his own mud splattered pants, "and trust me…I'll know."

Silence. "Are you waiting for something?" he pressed, eager to be rid of her.

Her voice came silent as the wind, so silent he'd almost missed it.

"How many am I supposed to run?" Something about her tone seemed strange, as if she were suppressing something. Rage, perhaps. She had the worst mood swings he'd ever seen – they came without warning and left just as rapidly.

He shrugged. "As many as I see fit," he informed her in a tone that was nonchalant and yet simultaneously dared her to protest his words. She didn't rise to his bait.

"Anything else?" he asked again, impatient.

"How will you know if my pace changes?" her voice had taken on an almost impudent tone.

He snorted, then paused. "Oh…you were serious?" Silence. Then, "I'll know."

She assessed him blankly, not a word passing through her lips. Swiftly, she undid the silver clasp on her cloak and it slid silently down into a black pile at her feet. Then she was off, before he could say another word, process another thought.

_She is going too fast,_ was Murtagh's first thought. _She'll never be able to maintain that pace. It's not…well, it's not human._

He let out a breath of air, eyes still glued on her dark, shrinking figure in the distance. He frowned, for what seemed the hundredth time that day.

_I would do well to remember her_ _humanity is still under question_. He recalled how his flesh had ripped apart when her _claws_ had dug into him. No, he wasn't like to forget that any time in the near future. But it was more than that, really; more than just physical discrepancies that set her apart from others.

Not only did her limbs respond faster – faster even than Eragon's when last they'd crossed blades – but she was also far too observant for her own good. Seven hells, she seemed able to pinpoint almost exactly what he was feeling without even seeing him and he could barely guess at how she felt with _both _his eyes. And then of course there was the matter of how she would sometimes break off into a foreign language he had never heard the likes of before.

_And let's not forget the double-edged personality she has._ Sometimes he would swear there were several different people squeezed into that body, each struggling against the other for control.

Yet there was a more frightening aspect still; what he knew about her paled in comparison to what he didn't. Why, for instance, had Galbatorix kept her hidden away for who knew how many years and only just revealed her to him now? What purpose had Galbatorix set aside for her? Whatever it was he would find out soon enough. The Black King never revealed his pieces until they were ready to strike. The thought sent a chill down Murtagh's spine.

She was powerful, that was true enough – he had seen that just the first time they'd fought – but there had to be something truly dark and terrible for Galbatorix to value her above one of the only remaining dragon Riders.

_Still puzzling, are we? _Thorn interrupted Murtagh's wonderings. An image of a torn deer carcass flashed through his mind and before it disappeared he managed to glance a red scaly jaw tearing into the raw, dripping flesh.

_Done hunting then?_

_Hardly. This is merely a break from hunting, _Thorn replied smugly. An image of a gargantuan boar, nearly half the size of Thorn himself, filtered through their mental link. _I've got it cornered already. It left such an obvious trail even the most dull-witted peasant girl could have followed it._

_Well one can hardly call you a dull-witted peasant girl. What are you waiting for? _Murtagh asked curiously, looking futilely about for any inch of dry ground to sit on. He groaned in frustration when he realized there was none. There wasn't even a tree for him to lean against.

_I'm whetting my appetite. And building up its fear; it knows I'm out here, biding my time, and it will put up more of a fight this way. It's working itself into a frenzy._

_If I were your prey I'd be worked up into quite a frenzy myself. _Murtagh joked lightly, still vaguely casting about for a place to recline.

_It's the frenzy that truly kills them, in my experience, at least. They lose all logical thought and turn to madness in their crazed attempt to survive. The carelessness and reckless abandon are what makes them such easy prey – and I'm just the predator to strike in them the right amount of fear._

By the tone in his thoughts it was obvious how much Thorn loved the hunt and it was pointless in trying to discourage him from it – he was a dragon, after all. More to the point, Murtagh knew exactly what it felt like. Being the most powerful creature in the forest, knowing that no matter what you were the champion, that you were the best and no creature's equal. If one had the power then why not use it? There was no victory in going easy on your prey.

_We should fly tonight. _Thorn suggested hopefully as he suckd the last strips of meat from the deer's ribs.

Giving up his vain search for dry ground, Murtagh pulled a glove off his marked hand and placed it on the muddy earth. Whispering a few words in the ancient language, he felt as the moisture was sucked from the dirt as he allocated it several feet away. Triumphantly, he sat down, wiping the mud from his hands onto his jerkin, feeling mildly pleased with himself.

_Once I've met with Galbatorix we shall. _Murtagh promised, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. There was a blur in his vision, swiftly approaching. In a flurry of wind and color, Mariel sped by him, beginning her second run of the perimeter.

_Damn, _Murtagh swore, _I forgot to watch her._

_You're having her run? _Thorn asked curiously. _If it was me I'd have her doing a whole manner of exercises. Running is child's play._

A secretive smirk found its way on Murtagh's features. _She is a child. But don't worry – this is just the beginning._

There was a long silence from Thorn's end. Then, _when can I meet her?_

Murtagh almost choked – and would have, had he been eating. _Meet her? Why? What would that accomplish?_

_She intrigues me…perhaps I can puzzle out what you cannot._

_It's not that I can't figure her out, _Murtagh shot back crossly, suddenly on the defensive. _I'm biding my time. Stalking my prey, if you will. That's something you know all about, isn't it?_

_I will meet her._ Thorn answered, resolute.

He was sounding more like a proper dragon as each day passed, and less like a young hatchling. Murtagh was grateful for the great distance between the two as it was easier to shield his thoughts without Thorn noticing.

_We would probably have to get Galbatorix's permission first, _Murtagh warned, watching as a frigid breeze harshly tossed a clump of dirt about in the wind.

Almost instantly Murtagh felt the excitement drain from Thorn, replaced with trepidation. Thorn slammed his hind leg into the ground with aggravation, sending several traumatized birds up into the air. _It's not fair!_

A smile found its way onto Murtagh's lips at Thorn's reaction. _I'll work on it. _He promised, pushing himself up to his feet. He'd caught a glimpse at the black blur which was Mariel and he fully intended to stop her before she managed to rush into her third lap.

Thorn, having sensed Murtagh's intentions, quickly sent a thought. _You'd better. Now I am off to conquer this boar. I shall reach you when I have finished. Do _not _disturb me before then…unless the value of unburnt skin is meaningless to you._

He smiled at Thorn's idle threat and called out to Mariel, waving her over. She swiftly jogged over to him, her pace slowing.

"You cannot mean to tell me that I have finished." her voice sounded very low and very confused. Murtagh's eyes quickly looked her over, noticing her even breathing and dry, not perspiring skin.

He almost smiled at her naivety. "Far from it. But before we get to that you're going to tell me why you broke pace."

She frowned. "What? I didn't –" Murtagh cut her protestations short,

"You sped up."

"Had I? I –"

"We'll work on it next time. The important thing is you did not slow down." She glared angrily at him, upset at being interrupted twice in a row.

"Next time?"

"Yes. And you're going to need to keep that temper of yours in check. If you ever hope to be a great warrior you cannot let your emotions steer the course of the battle… or you will die."

Something flashed beneath her eyes. "I can control myself perfectly well." Murtagh tossed her a look but shrugged none the less, not caring to pick an argument with her.

"First things first – what did you notice on your run?"

The question was a test; Murtagh knew exactly what she would find on that run considering the countless times his old teacher, Tornac, had made him run it. He asked to test her observational skills. If she wanted to survive she'd need to know what was going on around her at all times. That meant when she thought she was alone, thought she was safe, or didn't see a need in paying attention to her surroundings.

"I saw what one normally would expect in a forest," she began tersely, still upset from his reprimand. "Mud. A stream here or there and perhaps the wayward creature."

Murtagh was about to interrupt her and say that her response was far from adequate but was cut off before even managing to open his mouth.

"Then there was the surprising lack of birds about halfway through the run. At first I was confused but the lightning-struck tree that seems to have brought down half the forest with it seems a reasonable enough conclusion. Not ten feet from here is a small patch of earth with no grass on it whatsoever. Even the ants seem to avoid it. And then of course there is the waterfall about halfway through the forest on the eastern side of this glen."

Murtagh had been following her, mentally nodding along, until that last bit. All of the previous things she had mentioned he had already known himself. There had been a strong storm a few weeks past and the patch of lifeless earth had been there since he could remember – a mystery if there ever was one. But the waterfall…well _that_ had taken him by surprise. He must have run the same course she had more than a hundred times before – and she had noticed it on what, her first or second time around?

"And then there was the rider in the center of the glen conversing secretively with his dragon, not at all paying attention to his mentee." She concluded dryly, wrapping her hands behind her back, almost as an expectant child would when boasting to their parent of some great achievement they'd accomplished.

Murtagh narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, not even bothering to inspect her clothes for evidence of mud. She was far too smug to have fallen in that slick, foul smelling substance.

"Now," she continued on, not waiting for either approval or rejection, "what am I doing next?"

What Mariel had done was remarkable. She could not have been inside his mind to know he had been talking with Thorn – one of them was sure to have felt the intrusion. And yet the way she had told him left no room for doubt. It had not been a wild guess or some desperate attempt to intimidate him. It was said as a fact, to let Murtagh know that she knew. That he should not be asking her questions when he might not want to know their answer. A warning.

"Are you waiting for something?" Mariel interrogated with a cool flick of her voice, repeating back to him his own words from before.

"You are going to take a break from running." He looked her swiftly up and down, "I trust you brought your sword?"

"Laeranír," she corrected, more out of habit than anything.

"I shall take that as a yes," he answered, an unintentional bite in his tone. He did not see where she could have stored the blade; all she was wearing was light, airy cloth. He resented her seemingly imperviousness to the cold. She seemed to glow in the mountain-like frigidity of the air. Murtagh surpressed a shiver.

Mariel lightly bounded over to where her cloak had fallen and pulled out her belt from its depths, both sword and dagger dangling from it. Buckling it quickly around her waist she bent over to pick something up and then she seemed to falter slightly, fingering the black strip of cloth.

"Do I have your permission?" she looked up from the item, curious eyes on him. It was her headgear. He was about to respond when she cut through him, assuming his answer would not be to her liking. "I _do _have to train with it on. It protects my identity and keeps my senses attuned. My teacher – "

"You can wear it," Murtagh interrupted irritably. "I was going to let you, anyway."

She paused, and Murtagh could almost feel the apprehension coming off of her in waves. Maybe he _was _getting better at figuring her out.

"Why the sudden change? I thought you hated when I wore it."

It wasn't that he hated it so much as it sent a chill down his spine to watch her fight with it on. It wasn't natural. No one should be that good at fighting when completely blind.

"Well…it's up to you. If you fight better with it on then wear it. If not, then don't. It's that simple."

She hesitated, "thank you."

Her uncertain words seemed to echo in the silent glen. Murtagh didn't respond, preferring to watch silently as she wound the leather round and round her face, covering every inch of her pale white skin, save for her lips and chin.

"Why don't you have your sword?" She asked after the wretched thing was properly fastened. He threw her a look, noting the way she always danced around saying its name.

_Zar'roc. Misery_.

A cool wave of anger shot through him but he suppressed the emotion, squashing it before it could reach his face. _I am not my father._ Murtagh opened his eyes to glare at her.

"Because we are not dueling." He answered matter-of-factly.

"Scared of me?" She teased lightly, her good humor seeming to have returned. For the time being, anyway. "That would be a tale to tell your children – how the big, scary dragon Rider was afraid of a little girl."

He snorted. "Hardly. I intend to watch your form when you fight someone else, and tell you what improvements need be made."

"No pressure or anything," she muttered so softly under her breath that he almost didn't hear her.

Before Murtagh could tell her to, she already had unsheathed her sword and assumed her stance.

"Good. Now – you're on the battlefield," he informed her, pulling at the magic within himself. Instant darkness greeted his eyes, but then a battlefield shot out beneath them. "You just killed the immediate threat, but you cannot manage to get your daggers out of him."

He motioned for her to comply and she reluctantly dropped the glittering weapons in question from her belt. Yet instead of falling straight to the ground as the rules of gravity demanded, they instead flew into the dead corpse of a faceless man.

Murtagh continued on, "Four men are circling you and there is no clean way out. Also, you're up against a castle wall running along your right," even as he said it four encroaching, iron-clad men appeared, frozen in time and there was suddenly a great wall to her right, towering above the battlegrounds. He continued on, "and atop the wall are two archers with aiming right for you. Show me how you would kill them."

"What?" she asked bitterly. "Nothing's on fire?"

A cruel smile twisted its way onto Murtagh's lips. "But of course – how could I have forgotten? You are lucky enough to be standing in a pitch field which is going to be lit in," he paused in mock thought, "oh, let's make it a surprise, shall we?" He smirked almost expectantly back at her, only to remember her features were all but hidden by the mask.

Instantly the scene before them transformed and the grass Mariel had been standing on was magicked into a black field of slick pitch. Both of them knew that, even though they were nowhere in sight, messenger boys were running out with pitch for the archers' arrows up on the wall. In exactly one minute the field she stood on would be ablaze.

"That's not possible," she protested hotly.

"Are you going to complain or are you going to fight?" Murtagh called back to her, sure she would have sent him a scathing glance given the time.

Without another word the battle commenced and the men who had been frozen mere seconds before were now advancing on Mariel at an alarming pace, deadly weapons in hand. Of course they were not _real _men. None of it was real and was therefore no more exhausting to conjure than if he had simply pictured the scene in his mind. It was one of the many tricks Galbatorix had taught him.

But it was black magic and as such it had its drawbacks – and the most important of these was that whatever wounds one took here were truly sustained. The illusion was impossible to separate from reality – in their minds, at least. If the brain thought it was hurt then so, too, would the body be. Swords would cut, fires would burn and most of all, death would kill.

Given the trick Mariel had pulled last time – robbing the air of oxygen itself – he had decided it best not to weave himself into the illusion. By staying a specter Murtagh could avoid any nasty surprises she might decide to throw his way.

The four men were circling her, swords drawn, steadily closing the distance between them. An arrow whizzed by from the ramparts above which Mariel easily dodged as she dropped to one knee, scimitar drawn and waiting on the other. Her right hand firmly gripped the hilt while her left rested beside her foot in the tar. Her head was bent over as she muttered something to herself – a mantra, a prayer? Who could say – as the men continued to close in around her. Murtagh narrowed his steel grey eyes in contemplation, wondering how she planned to overtake them.

There were at least two possible venues he could see her taking: one, she could fly into the air as he had seen her do so many times before, both avoiding their weapon's reach and simultaneously gaining the element of surprise. The other option was to wait until they were as close as she could safely allow and then blast them with a spell of her choice, perhaps the words she was chanting were for just that purpose.

Another arrow flew from above landing not an inch from her unflinching hand. The men moved closer. _What in seven hells is she waiting for?_

"Hiyaa!" Her shrill cry took him half by surprise as she flew up from her feet and into the air in no more than a blink of an eye, her left hand whipped about her even as the four men swung out with their blades into the now-empty air.

The man directly to her right dropped his sword as his hands flew up to his face and the sticky black substance that was suddenly oozing down it. Pitch. She'd thrown pitch at him from the hand she'd had rested by her foot, propelling it forward with a well-timed spell. Still, she'd need more than novice trickery to win this fight.

In the next second Mariel swung out with her razor-sharp blade even as her body somersaulted in the air, neatly lopping off the head of the second man with one clean sweep. His body took several seconds more to hit the ground.

Mariel landed neatly on her feet hardly making a sound when she landed, the unguarded back of one of her attacker's open to her. For a split moment she simply stood there doing nothing, almost expectantly, as she made no move to grab the brilliant opportunity that had arisen. Murtagh could've screamed at her right then and there – which is just what he was in the process of doing – when the quick whir of an arrow silenced him. The words of reprimand died in his throat as the man before Mariel fell to the slick, sticky ground, an arrow having burrowed itself deep into his neck.

_How had she known that would happen? _Murtagh couldn't help but wonder.

She flew about toward the next man who had turned to face her even as his remaining companion continued his losing struggle to scrub the pitch from his eyes.

_Good, _Murtagh thought to himself, pleased to see she was going for the target who posed the most threat rather than the easier, and completely blind, one. _One less thing I'll have to teach her._

Dropping her scimitar to the sludge below Mariel reached her right hand out behind her back, almost as though she were reaching for an arrow from some imaginary quiver. A low noise was emanating from her, almost as though she was humming a melody. The pitch changed, slightly lower, and suddenly the bloodied arrow ripped free of the corpse below her, flying into her waiting hand.

Murtagh's eyes widened, disbelieving. _How had she done that?_ She hadn't said a word and yet the arrow had somehow been magicked into her outstretched palm.

The man was closing in on her, his face nothing more than a blank mask. Mariel took one quick look at him…and fled. Her pursuer wasted no time thrusting his legs into a furious pace – but she was faster. Her legs were a blur as they pumped up and down across the field, out of range of the archers and their deadly arrows.

Murtagh had no sooner imagined himself nearer then he was suddenly beside her, an invisible specter to the scene that unfolded before his very eyes. Her song resumed as her feet suddenly stopped running and she turned about to face her purser. The tune took a lilt upwards even as her arm whipped back down, notching the arrow to what appeared to Murtagh to be no more than thin air. And then he saw it – a strange collection of misty air materialized, shaping into a wispy, ghostly bow.

The melody she hummed took several quick jumps up and down, fading so low that he could barely make it out at all. And then the arrow shot out of the mysteriously conjured bow in a burst of glowing white light even as the bow itself vanished just as readily as it had appeared.

This time Murtagh's jaw fell open before he could stop it, suddenly making him grateful he was invisible to her eyes. _Still, _he mused, his thoughts suddenly turning bitter, _not being able to see things has never hindered her before._

"Enough," he announced in a commanding voice as he shattered the illusion, jolting them back into the reality of the dried up meadow, and its accompanying bitter winds, that they had never truly left.

"Did I do well?" she asked tartly, seemingly oblivious to the unexplainable rage that was steadily building inside Murtagh's chest.

"Where in the name of the Maker did you learn that?" his voice was tight as he struggled to contain the snarl.

She shrugged. "Mayhaps I _imagined_ it. You're not the only one who can conjure things."

Murtagh's cold eyes narrowed. He knew mockery when he heard it – and besides, that wasn't the way the illusion worked; he himself was the only one who was allowed to alter it. Still, if she'd had that trick up her sleeve all along why hadn't she used it in all their innumerous duels? What was different now? And why had she hummed that haunting melody?

"I am in no mood for jokes," Murtagh snapped impatiently, voice tight. "I've never seen magic like that before – it could mean the difference between life and death out there on the field. Wouldn't you want to do everything in your power to further your stupid little cause?" His impatient voice had swiftly grown cruel and biting. The anger in it shocked Murtagh himself, but that didn't mean he'd be apologizing for it anytime soon. What he'd said was true. Keeping that knowledge to herself was a selfish, childish thing to do.

_Unless…unless she's supposed to keep it to herself. Unless it's yet more dark sorcery learned straight from the dark king himself. Galbatorix…but why would she only use it now?_

"_My _stupid little cause? You mean to say you're not with us?" her voice had gained a dangerous edge and Murtagh's heart slowed. He shouldn't have said it, not when she was so obviously under Galbatorix's influence.

"What are you on about?" he decided the only way out of it was to pretend he'd meant something else. "I simply meant your futile campaign to become my equal."

"I am not and never will be your equal," she said flatly. Murtagh waited and, sure enough, "I am your better in every way. Or have you not noticed your lost standing in the eyes of the king? Well, I'll make it simple for you; you're incompetent and untrustworthy."

Her words stung. Murtagh felt a cold anger sweep through him as he glared furiously at the girl before him. If he truly were as incompetent as she claimed then why was it Galbatorix had personally assigned him to train her? Why had she not managed to best him a single time in one-on-one combat? She wasn't the dragon Rider here, she was nothing more than a freak of nature. Perhaps an experiment of the Mad King's gone horribly wrong.

Rather than mention any of this to her Murtagh decided to let his actions do the talking. He concentrated on a single image and then swiftly thrust his hand out, palm facing forward as an overpowering wind knocked her over as he pinned her to the ground.

_You're not the only one who can work wordless magic,_ he thought angrily at her fallen form.

The adrenaline was pounding in his veins as she struggled against his grip, kicking and squirming wildly as though she were some trapped beast. But her raw, untrained power was no match for his cold, calculated rage and her attempts to break free were all in vain. Every time she tried to force him off her he responded with swift, brutal retaliation.

_Where was all her strength and energy now? Her disturbing skill and strange magic?_

She was panting now, thrashing wildly as she still fought against his hold. Her movements reminded him of a hunted creature as it fought against a larger and much more dangerous hunter. She tried to lift her arm to throw him off of her but once more he slammed it down into the foul, muddy earth, as he beat her into submission.

"You're nothing," he growled in a low, cold voice in her ear. She stiffened as he said it.

"Nothing."

**A/N: Wow, guys! Sorry it's been so long! I've been having lots of personal issues to deal with and then of course there's always high school and all the wretched work I've got to do for that, too. (And now Driver's Ed and evil AP summer packets too _) I wrote this chapter months and months ago only to realize that hey – I never actually posted it! That turned out to be a good thing, however, because it just went through a major overhaul and hours-long revising process. I like to think my writing skills have improved since I first began this story so I hope you'll get some satisfaction from the awful, inexcusably long wait. I'm sooo sorry! I hope to never take this long in updating again! But given all my AP summer work I can't make any promises, unfortunately. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and please please PLEASE tell me what you think of it! I'm dying to know (literally! I stayed up till 3 am finishing this :D) and it will encourage me to post updates sooner if I think people are interested. Constructive criticism is always welcome! So please REVIEW!**


	10. C9 Seeds for the Future

Chapter Nine: Seeds for the Future

Everything was bright, the sun itself seemed to burn white into the blue skies which hung it as Mariel's eyes adjusted to the sudden, overwhelming amount of light around her. Distantly, though not too far off, she could hear the birds' cheerful chirping, brought to her by the warm summer breeze. With it, the smell of freshly fallen morning dew, as well as flowers in full bloom, wafted her way. A woman – perhaps beside her, she could not tell – was humming a sweet, cheerful melody and gradually, as though materializing from the air itself, Mariel could feel the woman's arms around her, tight and protecting in their hold.

Then the woman's voice halted, if only for a second, before sounding again as a high-pitched, musical laugh. Apparently the girl she held, without Mariel's command to, had whispered something highly entertaining into her caretaker's ear, causing the abrupt stop.

"You ever are a silly girl," she murmured fondly to Mariel, tucking a strand of the young girl's curling brown hair behind her ear. She then reached out again for the girl's face with her own pale white fingers, softly brushing the girl's chin as she tilted it upward. Mariel's eyes flickered to the beautiful woman's face then, focusing on her eyes which had, all of the sudden, grown quite somber.

"But you should remember that one, my Mariel," she gazed intently into the girl in question's eyes, her pure silver ones as equally unnatural as Mariel's own.

"Repeat after me," she commanded as she once more hummed the melody of before, though this time all the cheer had left it for Mariel.

Her sudden sobriety frightened Mariel, however, and she cast her eyes wandering at her bright surroundings. The cheerful grass which the happy summer breeze played with was a verdant green smattered with outbreaks of yellow, pink, and light blue as many and more flowers had sprung up to interrupt the uniform green.

Then her gaze was jerked back to the woman's, her face suddenly restrained once more. "Promise me. Promise me that you will remember." The woman – for still Mariel was unsure of who she was – had an unexplainable sense of urgency in those few, tightly spoken, words. Her eyes were overcome with worry, fear, and some other emotion that Mariel had not seen often enough to categorize.

"Who are you?" she blurted, not thinking. Her captor smiled somewhat bittersweetly down at her young prisoner, her silver eyes glistening with matching tears. When she spoke again her voice was a faint whisper, seemingly miles away, in the young girl's ear.

"Don't forget. Promise."

Mariel jerked free of the woman's hold. "No!" she screamed, her voice girly and childish, "I don't even know who you are!" A single tear spilled from the woman's eye, falling softly onto Mariel's porcelain cheek. Then all was transformed.

"You must forget us! – forget everything." Once more was the woman there, this time kneeling before Mariel with her hands placed on the girl's shoulders. Beside the woman stood a man, quite tall, though when Mariel tried to focus on his features they were nothing but a smeared blur, as though her eyes were watering though she knew they weren't.

The air no longer smelt of life and purity, but rather of blood, iron, and smoke. She was in a dark, smoking field and all were corpses and dead creatures about her. Melted, dented metal and ash.

"Mariel," the woman continued softly, her usually lilting voice broke as she said her name, "my darling, you must forget us." And so she began to hum a different, far more haunting, tune than the sweet melody of before. Already Mariel could feel the memories – _her _memories – being torn, ripped, from her mind.

"No!" she cried, once more in that shrill, adolescent voice of hers, thought it was not quite so young as before, in the meadow. "Mother!" she pleaded, her heart suddenly aching. Her mother – for suddenly Mariel knew that's who the woman was – gently brushed the tears from her face. But it was no use, the onslaught had already begun.

"I don't understand," she managed through sobs. "I can never see you again?"

Her mother merely shook her head, no longer able to speak and she shut her eyes, tears freely pouring from them. But, uninterrupted, the song continued. The girl shrieked in anger, turning instead to the man behind her.

"Papa!" she ran to him, "Papa! – surely you can't –!" the words died in her throat with one hard gaze from his amethyst eyes, so hard they could have been hewn from the stone itself. She knew what it was he thought – that she should be strong, brave, and face her fears, not cast them off but _face _them. In that gaze was communicated all the love he felt for her, the worry, the pain, but above all the pure, raw _strength_. He would not be swayed – and neither should she.

Obediently, noiselessly, she wiped the tears religiously from her eyes, drawing herself up straight. When they shot back up to meet her father's she suddenly gasped – for it was not his eyes at all that she saw, but, rather, dark, black, and cruel ones.

For a moment she could but stand there in pure, muted terror, unable to command a single muscle in her body to be galvanized into the inevitable flight that would surely ensue. Terror grasped its cold, frigid hand about her heart and sent chilling goosebumps down her spine. Her heart began to pound furiously in her chest, gaining tempo, even as her breath became ragged.

_You shall be mine, _a voice sounded suddenly, invading her mind – if voice it could be called, truly, for it sounded bestial, full of such rage and hate that the distorted tones it sent out seemed more animal than sentient being.

She turned to flee and somehow managed her frozen limbs to obey her, her bare feet flew across the field of ash and stone, soot and blood and who knew what else. Her long, religiously toned, legs were the only thing that could keep her from him. There was no thought controlling her brain other than to run, to flee, to escape the mad, black man that wanted her very soul.

And then, from nowhere, she felt fire gripping her, burning arms restraining her, forcing her to breathe without air.

She heard words softly gasp free of her lips, no longer in the tones of a child, but comprehension was like trying to read blurred words on the soaked pages of some heartbreaking novel – the ones with the realistic endings; she knew, without having the specifics, what the outcome would be. Her eyes flicked up to the dark, evil man's own black ones but she did not find what it was, whatever it was, that she had hoped to find there. Her words, had they been heard at all, made no effect on him.

His grip tightened, mercilessly, his fire burning through her skin until she felt its heat crackling in her very bones. She would have cried but for the merciless forearm he pressed into her mouth with such a force that it nearly broke her jaw. Tears flooded her eyes as the smell of burnt flesh engulfed her nostrils.

_You cannot escape, _his words seemed to burrow down to her very core, forcing her heart to resume its rabbit pace. He held her shaking body firmly against his, crushing the oxygen from her lungs. _I have claimed you. You are my fate._

Without warning, she felt an unbearable, bursting pain in her neck as his teeth sunk into her flesh. A muffled scream roared from her mouth at the awful pain as her lifesblood was sent, pouring, from the wound in her neck to the mad man's lips.

"Ahhh!" Mariel awoke with a cry, jolting upright from her tangled, sweaty sheets. She fought against the restraining things with a frenetic violence and then, suddenly, she was free and tumbled to the cool stones below her. The fall was painful but she hardly felt it as she scrambled into the nearest corner of the still strange, dark room. Forcing her back against the wall, she tried to slow her heavy, frenzied breaths into a more relaxed tempo.

Several more seconds passed before she remembered where she was, _who_ she was – most certainly not some young, ill-fated child – and it was only then that her breathing truly slowed. She pushed back her damp, sweaty hair from where it was stuck, plastered, to her forehead.

_Just a dream_, she thought, closing her eyes in an attempt to calm herself. Instead, the black eyes of the mad man who had attacked her burned behind her irises and her eyes flew open in an instant.

"It was just a dream!" she cried desperately to her cold, empty room.

_No, _a voice suddenly spoke in her mind – not the roaring, bestial one of before but a cool, collected one. _It was a vision of what has, and what yet will, come to pass._

"Get out of my head!" she screamed to him, tugging violently at her hair. "All of you! – get out!" Her scalp was burning from the force at which she was pulling, but she did not relinquish her grasp. "It's my mind! Mine! My thoughts – my _own _thoughts! You haven't a right to them!" And then, suddenly, she was weeping. Her hands fell limp at her side, their previous violent task all but forgotten.

After several more minutes spent in miserable silence, she quiesced.

"Of what yet will pass?" her voice, cracking and desolate, spoke to the empty room. Perhaps she really was going insane, but she didn't really care.

She waited on baited breath for a minute or so, and, unsatisfied with the silent answer, she spoke again, "Tell me – show me!"

"Avar gohethe –!" she began to chant, words forming in her mind from nowhere, a sudden anger seizing her. _Fine then, _she thought bitterly to herself, _I will show myself._

Slowly, without consciously becoming aware of it, control was slipping from her. Almost possessed, she continued on chanting, voice nearly demonic. Her pupils dilated, a dark and inky substance spreading, like a poison, across their purple depths, not satisfied until they had conquered the whites as well, leaving her with entirely black eyes.

Spit flew from her mouth as she continued on chanting, but then, as soon as she had begun, she stopped. Her head hung low, as though exhausted from the effort and her panting slowed.

Then she let out a bloodcurdling scream and her head snapped backward in a motion that should have broken it. Her eyes flew open, the black ink entirely gone, replaced with pain, misery, and the reflection of flames played across their surface. Her nails dug furiously into the inlaid stone she lay on, clawing like some trapped beast. Blood soon trickled down onto the stones, spilling free of her cracked, broken, and stained finger nails.

The pain she felt was unimaginable, the least of which being her broken nails. Her very flesh felt aflame, her mind seemed to have been in torture for years, decades – though in truth it could not have been more than a handful of minutes.

"Avrar aneth! Avrar aneth!" she sobbed silently, knowing not which language had tumbled free of her lips, nor why. "I repent! I repent!"

**A/N ~ **Here's a quick one I just typed out in one sitting – so I apologize if the quality started going downhill, but I wanted to accomplish something :D Thanks for the reviews! – and please, if you like my story review it! Your thoughts can only help!


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